


colliding midflight (a blinding star)

by nocturnalKnight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Crimson Flower Spoilers, Dialogue Heavy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Expressive Talkative Byleth, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Internal Monologue, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Rhea Friendly, POV Alternating, Plot and Romance, Rivalry, Slow Burn, Two emotionally constipated prone to secrets dumbasses fall for each other, hubert and byleth: feelings??? fake your majesty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22144885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalKnight/pseuds/nocturnalKnight
Summary: Hubert has a million reasons to swallow down his feelings, and Byleth has that and secrets to keep. They dance around each other, sniping, hiding what they can, but time slices away their defenses like paper. (an expanded Hubert romance, a slow progression from rivalry to gentleness.)It would be easier to hate her. She’s not cowed, never has been- he resents that. She’s unapologetic about being herself, about owning her strength, gaining Lady Edelgard’s favor like a pin on her lapel; he’s lived in the shadows all his life to serve her. Byleth Eisner just cuts through like a single blade’s illuminated arc in the darkness.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 54
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after their B support.

Byleth’s running up the stairs, her heels clicking through the monastery she’s come to think of home. She finds herself in a nook somewhere, hidden away on the second floor, near the cardinals’ room. She doesn’t know where or when, only that it hit her like a thunderbolt.

Byleth thunks her head on the wall. 

_"I wonder what it takes to rile you up."_

_This is no time to be getting an inappropriate crush, especially on a man who’s threatened to murder you multiple times._ She contemplates the cracks on the opposing brick. _Who let me have feelings, anyway? It was much easier when I was just blank._

“I want to die,” she moans. 

“That can easily be arranged, Professor,” the worst voice in the world behind her sneers. She freezes on the spot, then tries to contain an anxious giggle. Byleth composes herself as best she can, then slowly turns around as if facing her execution. Hubert is standing there, smirking in all his ominous, oily sheen, uniform pressed to perfection. She should hate him. He’s insubordinate; he has a penchant for dramatic declarations and intimidating vagaries, but in spite of it all she can’t take him seriously. All she sees is someone her own age - a few months short, maybe - doing the only thing he’s ever known to do. Besides, if she disliked everyone who threatened or provoked her on sight, the monastery would be a lot smaller. 

He’s an enigma, versed in dangerous ways but she catches glimpses of a softer man at times. She once saw him look around suspiciously, then stoop down to pet a cat. She died on the spot. She’s also seen him carry a fainted Bernadetta to her room. There’s a rare flash of humor that lights up his eyes, at times. If only he could bring himself to stop hating her. 

“Feeling a little frustrated, are we?” He simpers, and she shrugs. If she had a heartbeat it’d be pounding in her ears, but at most she pushes her hair from her forehead - a reflexive movement she sees him note for later reference. “It seems my earlier descriptions were correct, after all. You are at war with yourself, it is clear.” 

At first she thought he meant Sothis. Which may well be the case, but she understands better now. It’s not just that, but he sees her in some way through to the core. She’s grappling with something she’d never thought she’d want; being attracted to him. Her throat is a desert as she manages, “You are perceptive.”

“Do you deny my previous assertions? I will not have someone so unpredictable near Lady Edelgard.” He starts towards her, and she involuntarily takes a step back only to have her back greeted by the wall. His smirk only widens. She starts to sweat as he comes closer. Even though this is a precarious situation, all she can think about is wanting to push a lock of his hair away to see his other eye. 

In vain, she says, “St-stay right where you are,” and at her stutter he smiles, deadly, but instead her heart does a flip. His expression is of gleeful triumph at finally having scared her, but she knows better. 

She tries to roll to the left of him, only to be blocked by his arm. She’s trapped. His voice is smooth as silk. “I warned you once I would dispose of you once you were of no use to Lady Edelgard. Turn traitor, and-”

At this last insinuation her nerves fray to shreds, and she finds that underneath, she’s furious. Infuriatingly attractive or not, he takes too many liberties with her. She seizes his coat’s lapel and yanks him closer to her. Her own voice in return is as cold as ice. “Go ahead and try it,” she hisses. “You think you have me pegged? You’re transparent as crystal, Vestra; don’t think I’m ignorant of your seething jealousy. Poison me, threaten me, electrocute me, assassinate me; it doesn't matter. Don’t kid yourself thinking that it’s all for her. You resent me because she trusts _me."_

He stumbles backward when she releases him forcefully and stares at her with blatant loathing. The abandoned hallway they find themselves in feels that much colder. 

“You wanted me to be nothing more than a tool, but I’m more than that. I’m her friend. I believe in her. I admire her. I trust her.” She says, then softens her tone. “I know what an honor it is, to have that returned in any small way. I would never harm her. You won’t take me at my word, I know that-”

“You assume correctly.” He interjects acidly. “Pretty words, Professor, but I’m not easily bought.” He can’t bring himself to contest her prior assertions. She’s right, and they both know it. 

“ _Evidently._ What can I do to earn your trust?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I cannot fathom what you’re asking.”

“I know you and her, you’re a package deal.”

He feels the world spin on its axis. A trick? A deception, to make him lower his guard. “You cannot be serious. Is this a paltry attempt at an olive branch? You want to be... _friends?_ ” He pronounces the last word like it’s a curse. 

“Despite my better judgment, despite your many attempts to the contrary, yes. So. What will it take for you to trust me?”

He struggles. He’s never been asked that question before, she can tell. But he switches back to intimidation. “I would know the true you. Your real desires.” 

Despite the menace behind his words, she practically flushes. She feigns nonchalance. “Oh, is _that_ all?”

“You decline?” He crosses his arms. 

“I would hardly be worthy of anyone’s trust,” she says, “If I just gave it all away on your command.” 

“Then it would seem that we are once again at an impasse.”

She sighs. “So it would seem.”

* * *

She’s guided them through every battle like a blazoned beacon, despite his misgivings. She’s capable, he knows that. Moreover he knows she’s kind - he’s seen her pick flowers for Bernadetta, scold anyone for badmouthing Dorothea or Petra in front of her, and even with everything between them she seeks him out for meals because she keeps track of the things he likes. It would be easier to hate her. She’s not cowed, never has been; he resents that. She’s unapologetic about being herself, about owning her strength, gaining Lady Edelgard’s favor like a pin on her lapel; he’s lived in the shadows all his life to serve her. Byleth Eisner just cuts through like a single blade’s illuminated arc in the darkness. 

He should hate her. Why can’t he hate her? Why this ache in his chest, this deranged fondness in his heart, whenever he looks upon her now? It doesn’t make any sense. He’s barely known her for a handful of months. His only response to this bizarre...feeling has been to snipe and threaten. Part of it is his jealousy, to be sure, but he knows a part of it is...his flailing, his unwillingness to give into silly sentiment, a bloom in his heart whenever he looks upon her. He can’t falter, can’t be weak; he must be steadfast in all things on his bloody path. She is a flaw in his armor, and so he’d responded with as much venom as he could muster. To root her out. To dispose of his weakness. 

Long ago he decided his heart was only set on one deserving woman. It feels like a betrayal, to gaze upon another, to even consider someone else. So he’d piled on resentment upon resentment and sabotaged any kind of chances he might have had to truly know her. 

He looks at himself in a passing mirror and shakes his head. “You fool,” he murmurs.

* * *

Byleth, Ashe and Shamir go to the market together that day to buy supplies. She likes to venture outside the monastery’s walls from time to time, so she suggests they go to the neighboring towns; Ashe gladly acquiesces. She worries about him, especially after Lonato’s breakdown and death. But he’s strong. She knows he’s always been a strong one, as she and Shamir trail after his silvery hair, listening to him excitedly go on about the latest book he’s read. She’s had to field some recommendations from Ingrid; she used to have her own dreams about being a valiant knight as well. 

But those dreams have changed, as has she. 

They find a bustling market in the next town on Leicester territory, called Ritalia. It’s beautiful, close to the size of a city due to an influx of people in preparation for the upcoming festival, set up near the monastery in order to take advantage of its many pilgrims that wander through. It’s a territory burnished in gold, spices and art; a few historical canals, in a commendable off-shoot style of Derdriu, run through the streets as they’re close to the river that runs under the Great Bridge of Myrddin. They find the marketplace in the heart, bustling and true, fabrics from a million places being sold, and wander about. As Ashe spots a bookseller, she smiles at him and says, “Meet us back at the entrance in two hours?” He scampers off after making some polite protests to the contrary, but she can read his eagerness all too easily.

She turns to find her fellow mercenary looking at her. Shamir shakes her head. “You like to take in strays, don’t you?”

Byleth shrugs. “Like recognizes like. But more than that, I’m just concerned about him. He lost his brother and his father in such a short amount of time.”

“I suppose you’re right to, after all that business with the Western Church. But what about me? Why did you bring me along here today? It can’t be to chaperone.”

“I can’t enjoy your company?” Byleth says teasingly. 

“No.” Shamir says bluntly. Byleth swallows a chuckle. 

“See, I admire your honesty and brevity. Qualities I lack, at times.” 

“Are you calling yourself a long-winded liar?” 

Byleth clutches her chest, like she’s been shot. “Ouch! I take back what I said. In all seriousness, you’re always so dedicated to your work. Something we have in common. I thought I should drag you out on your day off, make you see some sun.” 

“Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Think about everyone aside from yourself.”

She feels a sharp pang. “Oof. Saw right through me. I guess I deserve that.” 

Shamir shakes her head. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s your day off, too. Go on.” 

Byleth fixes her with a stern look. “Promise me you’ll try to enjoy yourself a little? You won’t go around just trying to gather intel and rumors from merchants?”

The night-queen examines her with orchid-purple eyes. “You know me too well. I won’t work too hard. I’ll even buy something for Catherine. She’ll be overjoyed. I’ll keep my promise as long as you don’t fuss too much over me or Ashe. I’ll see you in two hours.” 

Shamir walks off without so much as a wave, and Byleth shakes her head. Perhaps one day, she can tell Shamir what else they have in common, but that day is clearly not today. Besides, in a way, she was right. As much as Byleth loves her students and has loved living amongst people, she also enjoys her solitude, and her wanderlust has been kept on a tight leash. Ritalia is beautiful, bright, bold; she drifts from one stall selling intricate beadwork to a stall selling the most fragrant, delicious pumpkin bread. She’s seated by the counter, on a wizened wood stool, and pushes into the loaf with her fingers; it crackles cacophonously, and she’s happy. The pumpkin - and a bit of banana, for taste - is soaked through the interior, making it soft and sumptuously moist, while the crust adds a bit of texturally interesting crunch. She makes a mental note of the stand’s location. 

She remembers days like these when Jeralt would deign to stop at a city between their nomadic journeys or when he’d have a private client. She’d steal into a library, or a bookshop, read books all day or explore the nearest marketplace. The things she could put in the library’s Traveler’s Journals would be welcomed by Ignatz, she’s sure, but she doesn’t want to expose herself just yet. In fact, she decides to buy him some paint chips. He has a sharp aesthetic eye; she hopes, after he graduates, that he finally finds it in him to become a painter. 

She pushes her hair back with a huff as it keeps getting in her way, and looks longingly at a set of ornate silver hair clips being sold in wavy, delicate shapes before withdrawing. Too expensive, and she’s already spent too much today; she needs to save some for food she wants to make later. In fact - she spots the produce section of the marketplace, and zooms in on some ripe tomatoes. She’s been making leaps and bounds with her cooking, and these look fresh, and not freshly tumbled out of a bandit’s caravan after she’s unceremoniously murdered them. 

The tomato she picks up is ripe, plump and scarlet, ridiculously perfect, and she eyes the merchant suspiciously. _I wonder if they enhanced this with magic._

* * *

He’s out buying some gloves - white was a poor choice, they keep getting stained scarlet. He would keep them crimson, but it’s unseemly to show up to class that way. He would not disgrace Lady Edelgard as such. He’s secured a new package of them, along with a razor when he spots his esteemed professor from across the market. A flash of blue and black, he watches her for a while before she’s zeroing in on a stand and picking through some fruit and vegetables with a focused expression. If he were a more sentimental man, he might even call it... _adorable_. 

Perhaps he could talk to her, normally, both of them alone and coincidentally in the same place. Instead his lizard hind-brain says _go over there and try and scare her._

No one said he was particularly great at showing affection.

* * *

The sun beats down on her back like a golden, heated drum, and she, and the entire marketplace are gilt in coruscating light. She feels a prickle at the back of her neck, at odds with the temperature and bright atmosphere. She knows him immediately by his chilly aura; the shadow he casts over her. 

“Hubert,” she says, not turning around and continuing on to examine the pineapples on sale. _This has been a good day,_ she thinks. _I will not let this silly crush throw me off. You’re just a man._ “I’m shocked. I would think that direct contact with sunlight would’ve vaporized you into dust.” 

He hums contemplatively, surprised that she could tell it was him. “A strong opening salvo, Professor. Though you are not the first to tell me that.” 

“What are you doing here? Planning to poison my purchases?” She says, still refusing to look at him. The plum she picks up next seems particularly fascinating. _If I look at him, I will fall under his stupid seductive vampire spell._

“Nothing so malignant yet. Simply procuring some things.” She brushes past him at this statement, and he feels peculiarly wounded at the fact that she won’t even look at him. _Does she find me that repulsive?_

Fortuitously, the next booth is selling some Dagdan coffee. She picks up a bag, and smells it deeply, unable to contain her sigh of satisfaction. Hubert follows. He wants to buy one for himself; the scent is of high quality, he can tell. They both sigh at the same time, and at this, turn to each other. He quirks an eyebrow at her informal attire - a simple black top and training pants, though her dagger is still strapped to her hip. 

“I thought your singular interest was in tea.” 

“I enjoy a good cup of coffee, on occasion. This...this is nostalgic for me, I suppose.”

“In what way?”

She shrugs. She doesn’t see the harm in discussing a little with him. “This entire place, I think. I used to reside in cities where coffee was always readily available, whenever Father and I made landfall. Garreg Mach is lacking in that, though now that I think about it, clergy and knights don’t have much use for such luxuries. Ah, yes, and the sun - I’d be burned frequently from all the trips we made, all the time we spent outside…”

She falls into a reflective silence. Hubert says nothing, struggling with yet another facet of her personality unveiled to him. 

“Ah, but you don’t want to listen to my prattling, Hubert. You’ve made that clear.” She says, looking at her nails. 

“The more I know of you, the easier it is to end you,” he says. _Hubert von Vestra, you idiot._ He chides himself. 

“Predictable.”

Shamir materializes behind him and he all but jumps out of his skin. She’s even more discreet than he is - one to watch. “Is he bothering you, Professor?” 

“No,” Byleth says, already turning her back on him. “Goodbye, Hubert. I trust you can find your own way back.” 

He watches her go. He makes a couple more purchases before he leaves, and fights himself the whole way back to the monastery.

* * *

Right as Remire begins to wreak havoc upon everyone’s already fragile minds, she passes out. She feels a heaviness in her chest for the rest of the week, and thankfully, only Dimitri, Lorenz, Mercedes, a monk and her father can tell.

She’s stumbling through the second floor dorms, headed towards the greenhouse when she sees Hubert walking towards her, looking as ever, disgruntled and ominous. Then she feels her world tip into vertigo, and her eyes roll back in her head, and she step-stutters into the wall next to her. She doesn’t see the abortive movement he makes towards her, instinctive, as he holds himself back. Her face is in an unfamiliar moue of pain, and she’s clutching herself, holding steady. She looks like Lady Edelgard when the dark mages had unleashed their madness, and maybe that’s why he asks.

“Professor, are you alright?”

She bites out, “Don’t act like you care,” then slides down onto the floor. Despite her barbed words he squats beside her, watching quietly. 

“I don’t,” he says airily. “Lady Edelgard would worry, and that would make you a liability.”

“Ah, Hubert,” she says through pained breaths, “You have the bedside manner of a starved vulture.” 

“Why, thank you.”

She chuckles despite herself. There’s no getting up from this; her chest is weighted with pressure. She’s suddenly so tired. She’s sick to death of this cryptic shit, of no answers, of withholding authority figures and students galore who hold their cards closer than the Goddess picks her favors. She’s panting and weak on a floor with a man who hates her, a student, an enemy, object of her misguided affections, each dynamic now mixed together in some horridly complex cocktail. “You must be thrilled,” she says, exhausted. “To see me like this.” 

“While I would normally be in rapture,” he says deadpan, “it would be...disappointing if you were felled by anything other than me. I would have you take care, Professor. Lady Edelgard has placed her faith in your strength. Especially after our victory at Gronder Field.”

At that she looks up at him and breaks into one of her rare smiles, though it’s still an effort for her. He hates that it’s as affecting as Lady Edelgard stated. “ _Our_ victory? I thought I was merely a conduit for the house’s superior strength.”

“Flippant as ever,” he says dryly. “Besides, that was only a distraction.”

“Wait, what-”

In one swift movement he has her in his arms and lifts her up off the floor. She yelps, then throws her hands around his neck, cursing herself for registering his warmth. They’ve never touched before except in her fantasies; she’s utterly discombobulated. 

“Hubert von Vestra, _what are you doing?!”_

“I’m escorting you back to your room. You seem to not be up to the task.” He says, smirking. She’s lighter than he expected, and he tries to ignore the fact that she smells...good. Intoxicating. She enjoys cooking, eating and gardening, a fact he’s tried to shove deep into his psyche, and there’s a scent to her of turmeric, flora and some wretched tea blend.

“You- you-”

“Me?” His smugness could end her. He’s carrying her down the stairs now, and she’s thankful it’s sunset and everyone’s at dinner; she would not hear the end of it from Dorothea if they were spotted. 

_“Let me down immediately, you vampiric lunatic.”_

He chuckles. “Strong words, Professor. Tell me, if I let you down, would you be able to stand on your own?”

She fumes silently as she begrudgingly concedes his point. Accusingly, she says, “You’re enjoying this, you sadist.”

 _More than you know._ “I’m simply fulfilling my duty. Leaving you would be more callous than I’m capable of at the moment, and in the end cause more hassle for Lady Edelgard.”

“Right,” she mutters. “Right.” 

They carry on in silence until he notices her unabashed stare, heat rising in his neck as they walk past the greenhouse towards her quarters. She immediately averts her gaze, flushing. He’s noticed this from before - her intense, piercing stare, especially after they’ve discussed pertinent things of the Empire and books over tea, the few times they’ve managed to keep relatively civil. At first he thought she was just trying to read him and expose his and Lady Edelgard’s secrets, but now he suspects something else entirely. 

“Again, do you have nothing else better to do?” He asks, low. 

Her blush only increases. She blames her next admittance on her dizziness, and their close proximity. “I- I’ve been trying to discern your eye color for a while now. It changes in the light, you know...golden, then green, and in the sunset..."

He nearly drops her. “What.”

She cranes her neck even further away and refuses to look at him. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” 

_Has she been observing me?_

They continue on in silence until he arrives at her door and she fumbles at the thought of him entering her quarters. “I think I can stand now,” she blurts. He sets her down gently. 

They stare at each other for a moment before he looks away and coughs. She pins her gaze to his shoulder before she says awkwardly, “Ah...thank you, Hubert.”

“Please, do not mention it.”

He stands there longer than necessary before leaving. She slumps against the door, pulse a jumping jack a minute. She wants to splash herself with cold water. 

_These are dangerous waters._ Sothis says, disapprovingly.

 _I know._ Byleth thinks miserably, especially when he’s clearly in love with Edelgard. _Goddess, do I know._


	2. Chapter 2

Byleth witnesses Mercedes and Annette descend upon Ingrid with a hostile makeup takeover before the ball. She’d help the poor girl, but she’s fought Mercedes and Annette; no way she’s getting in that magic battle. Besides, Ingrid, from her observation, is constantly surrounded by idiot men. She could use a little feminine touch in her life- though, knowing the dynamic duo, it’s going to be less “a little” and more “a lot”. 

She wears a dash of mascara and some red lipstick - her only vanity. Besides, she’s sure she’ll just be chaperoning at the side while Manuela and Hanneman bicker. Unlike some, she’s happy for the occasion. Her students have gone through a lot this year. They deserve a time to be frivolous teenagers instead of hardened killers. Yesterday, they’d made a promise to meet again in five years. She wonders for a second what everyone, and Fodlan, will be like then.

When she’s finished gardening before meeting her students, Manuela pulls her to the side and wrinkles her nose. “Is that what you’re wearing? _Darling_.”

Byleth sputters a bit and looks down. Yes, her uniform is a little charred and torn from one of Annette’s last cooking projects, but so is everyone else’s. Her gloves are a bit dirty with soil, but nothing too noticeable. “Wha- everyone is going to be wearing their uniform, Manuela, and you’re wearing the same thing too!”

“My dress was at the height of fashion in Enbarr, I’ll have you know. Besides, shouldn’t you step out in something a bit more glamorous? A pretty young thing like you. I still have tons of dresses leftover from suitors during my time with the troupe… I’m sure we can find something that fits you!”

Byleth demurs, desperately searching for an exit strategy, but Manuela is as stubborn as they come and grabs onto her arm with gleaming eyes. Byleth whispers a curse under her breath. She’s stronger than she looks, the songstress.

“Come now, I may be dateless tonight, but I can at least make sure you’ll have the men falling over you! Just as I was, wherever I went...” Manuela’s voice takes on a bitter tone, and Byleth can already tell there’s no stopping her when she gets in a mood like this. Earlier, she was ranting about the ball, and how she wanted to feel that youthful love again, and it wasn’t fair, and so on...

As she’s unmercifully dragged away, the former mercenary wishes she’d just helped Ingrid and perished under a blast of Cutting Gale instead.

* * *

“Manuela, I _look_ and _feel_ ridiculous.”

“Nonsense! I have good taste. Now, will you step out? Otherwise, we’ll both be late. It really wasn’t necessary to try and escape, you know. I’m a physician, and I know your weak points.”

“You’re worse than a Demonic Beast,” Byleth grumbles, but not sincerely. Uselessly, she flattens the fabric some more. It’s not bad. Not as revealing as some of Manuela’s other suggestions, and this is...comfortable. Simple but elegant, like she’d asked. Manuela had thankfully let her make the final decision between three dresses, though she'd vetoed Byleth's ask for black or grey.

She steps out from behind the screen divider in Manuela’s room, and Manuela clasps her hands together and gives a reverent gasp. She immediately steers her towards a vintage mirror, a tad rusted. Manuela had tidied up somewhat before she had come in, though that just meant she made a path for them to step through with all the clothes on the floor.

“My darling, I’m speechless. You look amazing. A vision. You’ll have any man present eating right out of your hand. My work here is done.” She fluffs Byleth’s hair a little. “So...do you have your eye on anyone? A cute monk, perhaps? A dreamy knight?” 

Byleth snorts and shakes her head. Hubert pops into her mind momentarily, but she banishes the image. She’ll wear this luxurious thing to sate her friend - she’s never worn a dress before in her life, it feels a bit awkward even though it fits surprisingly well - and maybe dance with Edelgard at best. Shamir told her knights and faculty don’t usually take part, anyway. 

Manuela sighs. “Well, I suppose not. You’ve always been so focused on your students. Come on now, we must meet up with our houses before they start to wonder about us. Knock ‘em dead, Professor.”

* * *

The Black Eagle House is chattering away while waiting for their Professor; Dorothea is already trying to show Petra some dance steps before they get on the floor, giggling. Petra, in standard fashion, keeps striking up battle stances with a confused look on her face. Bernadetta watches with wide eyes, while Caspar is already trying to practice his moves on Linhardt, who seems half-asleep at the wheel. Ferdinand looks ready to challenge Edelgard to a dance-off, one Hubert is sure his lady would win.

They turn at the sound of their professor’s footsteps. He expects her to be in her usual uniform; nothing more, except every thought goes out of his head when he sees her. His first impression is that she’s glowing; a blinding star from the heavens, silvery-white even in the dimly lit backdrop with her hair put up in a coiffed bun. There is nothing remarkable about the dress except its glimmering sheen and lack of sleeves - it would even be considered austere, in some circles, slim but not hugging. A necklace with her icon - a pink arrangement of lines - sits on her collarbone, emphasizing what pale skin is there as the collar is a generous V. She’s breathtaking. He wants to run, discomfited by his flaring admiration for her, lodged in his chest like a foreign, unwanted object.

He’s silent as Edelgard exclaims, “Professor! You look...incredible.” A murmur of assent goes up as everyone clambers around, and he sees Byleth, self-conscious, shrink under the attention.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it? I should change,” She frets, tugging at the shimmering fabric with one hand. He restrains a protest with some effort. “It was Manuela’s idea.”

“Of course, her style is impeccable,” Dorothea beams. “Don’t! You look great, Professor. You had better save a dance for me.” She winks. Hubert feels the urge to jump into the lake and drag her along with him.

“Professor, I will consider it an affront to the Empire if you change,” Edelgard says in sepulchral tones. Everyone turns around to look at her. “Oh - it was a joke! I can make jokes too, you know. Never mind. Let’s just enter.”

* * *

She watches Dimitri and Edelgard dance with their respective partners, smiling. She takes a sip of her champagne, only to be surprised by Claude at her side. They’ve talked briefly, had meals together; she enjoys his wit and lack of formality. They’ve played games of chess together, most ending in a dead stalemate, though he’s won on several occasions - they’re about evenly matched, a fact that Claude seems both enchanted and irritated by. Yet, she’s stunned when he bows, and offers her his hand.

“Care to dance?”

Speechlessly, she takes it - they’re spinning on the dance floor before she can blink, whirled around by him. He smiles and murmurs, “You look beautiful, you know. But then again, you always do.” 

She colors pink. His laugh is a breeze in her ear, “Is that surprising? C’mon, every guy in here looks like he wants to take my head off for having the nerve to ask you to dance. Makes me wish you’d chosen me, instead of the princess, after all.”

“In another life,” she says, “I’d be all yours.” He reminds her of Hubert, at times. The poisons, the scheming- in another life she thinks they would be friends.

“Careful, careful,” he teases. “You might make somebody jealous.”

She snorts. “ _Suuuuuure_.” 

He laughs again. “You’re too modest. But beautiful _and_ sarcastic; the whole package. You really would’ve been a perfect fit for the Golden Deer.” 

What he sees, yet she doesn’t, is the skulking figure of Hubert lurking in the crowd watching them, arms crossed, hands fisted so hard his gloves might pop.

* * *

She manages to escape her deluge of partners eventually. Sylvain, the cad, tries to ask for two rounds. She dances with everyone she can - her entire house, saving one, and what seems like half the monastery included, but she finally manages to steal away after asking Claude to be her distraction. Her only caveat is no poison. 

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that, Teach?” He winks and begins to tell a loud, long winded joke about wyverns and crescent moons to everyone else still waiting on her dance card. Normally she’d stick around for the punchline. But in this case, she makes her escape, mouthing thanks as she vanishes into the night.

* * *

Hubert’s loitering until she finds him at the Goddess Tower and he barely contains his exalted breath, mixed in with envy. Has she come here for the Master Tactician? He feels his throat working at the sight of her. Best to make this exchange short.

“Here for a tryst, Professor? I won’t interfere. I shall take my leave at once. Farewell.”

“Wait.”

He stops in his tracks. “Yes, what is it? I assume you are waiting on someone.”

“What do you mean, a tryst?”

“You have arranged to meet someone here at the Goddess Tower, have you not?” He says, trying hard not to let his resentment leak through.

“No, not at all.”

“I see. Apologies for the misunderstanding.” He replies curtly. She has to be lying, and meeting here with Claude - hiding it from him, as Claude is still a student. Besides, she has no reason to trust him, and vice versa. “ Then I take it you are unfamiliar with the rumors about this place?”

“What rumors?”

“There is an old legend that says promises made between lovers here are sure to be fulfilled. If you believe in that sort of thing. I would have expected you to be familiar with the story already, considering how popular you are.” 

Hope bobs up in her chest with the revelation that he’s been keeping track of those who like her, though she tamps down on it with an anvil. “No, no one asked me. I’m not that popular.”

“On the contrary, I suspect those who wished to ask were simply too daunted to try. But thanks to their cowardice, I am gifted with this opportunity to speak with you. It’s clear you have never felt at ease around me, as a result of how little trust there is between us. But I should leave, in case you’re lying. I would hardly want to become subject to a lover’s quarrel.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Trust is not in my nature.”

“You can’t act like you don’t know me, now.” She says, and it’s dangerous waters she’s wading in but she can’t stop herself.

“I may have reconsidered you in some aspects. But that is all.”

“When have I ever lied to you? Besides,” she says recklessly, “Maybe this is just a ploy to get me out of the way. Perhaps you are up here for a tryst yourself. So, Vestra. Why are you here?”

“I came here for the quiet, and to perhaps scare some juniors into prudence in their affairs. I hardly expected to find you here, waiting for a lover.”

“Do I seem like the trysting... _type_?”

No, but in his irrational haze of lust and jealousy, he has to convince himself that she’s here for someone else, lest he lose his mind and ask her to make a vow with him. He mutely shakes his head, but decides to make a joke to save face. “Perhaps you borrowed more than just a dress from Professor Manuela.”

A beat, and she laughs. Her entire face transforms into a radiance brighter than the moon and he’s begrudgingly cheered by the fact _he_ made her do that, no one else. “I - wow. I respect her, and her freedom of choice, but I don’t think I could approach romance with the same stamina as my colleague, no.”

He bows his head, hiding a grin at being able to make her laugh. “By your leave, Professor.”

She waves him off, still laughing. The joyous sound of it stays with him long past his exit.

* * *

Her father dies.

She doesn’t sleep the first night, nor the next. At some point, she sneaks out to get food, and she sees Bernadetta doing the same at the edge of her peripheral vision.

She doesn’t bother to see Hubert when she manages to crawl out of bed. She knows anything he’d say would just echo Edelgard. She knows what her student’s saying is right, but she can’t fathom it in her loss. She wants to drown in it. Hubert doesn’t come by to see her, either, and she doesn’t expect him to.

There’s a single bag of coffee beans left on her doorstep that she knocks over with her boot. She futilely looks around to see the recipient, but he’s long gone.

* * *

In the Sealed Forest, she’s vibrating with the energy of finally having revenge. Hubert says one thing to her - one thing that stays with her, even after they’re done.

“The enemy is strong, but you will prevail. You must.” She looks straight at him then, the first time they’ve locked eyes since before her father perished. There’s a strong emotion in his eyes, one she can’t place but she feels warmed nevertheless.

She murmurs so that only he can hear. “I don’t plan on dying on you yet. I know you’d be sad if I let anyone else kill me, after all.”

* * *

His faith in her is not misplaced. She tears through the sky like - like a god, a phrase he never thought he’d use. He’s in awe of her as she unleashes her singular fury. Her new hair and eye color are certainly striking, eerily reminiscent of Rhea. When Edelgard talks to her, and she reveals the goddess is the source of her powers, his heart sinks and he mutters a curse. 

That line of thinking is cut short, however, when she collapses on the ground. Edelgard panics and leans over her, while the rest of them start running towards them.

“I shouldn’t ask Hubert to carry you-”

He convulses forward towards Byleth without even thinking. “I can do it, my lady.”

“Are you sure?”

 _I’ve done it before._ “I do not mind assisting you in this matter.”

He carries her all the way back, ignoring the whispers being passed around behind him.

* * *

Edelgard notices his restlessness that entire evening. Though she’s used to him shadowing her, he keeps glancing towards the dorms as they move through the monastery, exchanging messages to and fro. Hubert’s restlessness is not like others’ tics: tapping fingers or biting nails. No, she can tell through the way he gets grumpier and grumpier throughout, more withdrawn with each passing minute.

At some point, after dinner, she looks up at him in the dining hall. “Go and check up on her, Hubert.”

To his credit, he makes a valiant effort. “I don’t know who you’re speaking of, my lady.”

“Hubert, please. Visit her and ascertain her condition, that is a command.”

“I could not possibly leave you here alone-”

Dorothea, sitting at the next table, cocks an eyebrow at Edelgard, as if to say, _what am I, chopped liver?_ She slides across with a beaming smile, and says to Hubert, while winking at Edelgard, “I’ll be her escort for the evening, Hubie. You heard her. Go and make sure the Professor’s alright.”

He looks back and forth between the two women staring at him down. His lady looks absolutely resolute and Dorothea is smiling. He’s outnumbered; he sighs and stands up. “I shall return before morning, Your Highness. Dorothea, please make sure Lady Edelgard is safe for the night, or there will be dire consequences,” he says.

They both watch him go.

Edelgard has a contemplative look on her face when she says, “Dorothea, do you think- I thought it impossible, but, do you think Hubert is fond of our Professor?”

“A month ago I would’ve said it was impossible too, Edie,” she replies, the same ruminative look on her face. “Now I’m not so sure. Why? Are you perhaps jealous?”

“I don’t know which of them to be jealous of, to be honest,” The princess replies. “But I’m happy to witness Hubert see the value of our teacher. I’ve always wanted them to be friendlier to each other.” 

“They both adore you, you know. We all do,” Dorothea says. 

Edelgard blushes and changes the subject quickly.

* * *

He enters her quarters. Manuela had deemed her only fainted and safe to rest in her own room, but he sits by her anyway and watches her sleep for an hour before she stirs, looking no worse for the wear.

He gives her a glass of water he’d taken from the kitchens, and after she’s done drinking, she asks, “Is everyone alright?”

That’s when the dam breaks and he sees red. 

“Is everyone - yes, everyone is fine. But you are reckless and impulsive- you could’ve died- running headlong into a trap without asking me or anyone else for backup? What were you thinking? Why you command us, I’m again uncertain. Of all the foolhardy, rash decisions you’ve made-”

“Didn’t know you cared.”

He’s scarcely seen her look so at ease around him, and his heart twists knowing it’s because she’s barely lucid. He stops berating her and catches his breath. He knew she would come out alive, yet he knows it was close and it literally took divine intervention. He never thought he’d be thankful for the goddess, of all things. She coughs, and he feels a sliver of guilt: he scolded her, and for what? Being consumed by revenge? He can’t understand the love she has for her father, but he understands bone deep hatred. Still, it was terrible logic, stupid, beneath her. She must see that, can’t she? 

He’s lost in his thoughts when she reaches up, slowly enough to telegraph her movements, and he freezes, utterly unsure. Slowly, gently, she pushes away the hair blocking the rest of his face and smiles. They still aren’t touching, but he feels his mouth dry, tongue a persistent pulse.

“What are you doing?” He murmurs.

She laughs and it's so completely free, he wants to swallow it up and keep it with him forever. “Admiring you.”

It’s through years of schooled indifference and stoicism that he manages to contain his internal screaming and blushing.

He catches her hand in his, and not knowing what else to do, his heart swollen with foreign tenderness, he kisses the backs of her knuckles, secure in the knowledge she won’t remember tomorrow.

“Promise me,” he hears himself say. “Promise me you won’t be so careless with your life in the future.”

She nods weakly then closes her eyes, leans back into her pillows and sheets. 

“I’m starting to think you’re only nice to me when I’m impaired,” she mumbles. “Either that or this is a very, very sweet dream.”

He swallows, and he’s always been a consummate liar, otherwise this would be hard. “You’re dreaming. I came by and left a glass of water, nothing more.”

She sighs. “Yes, I thought so.” She settles into her bed, and he thinks her asleep. 

He finally lets himself look around her room. She’s made it her own; she’s draped a crimson Adrestian Empire tapestry over some of her things, and he spots a bouquet on her table. He’s noted her love for floral arrangements. The result is elegant and colorful. There’s a note on her desk next to a bottle of whiskey. It’s from her father. He turns away respectfully. There’s books everywhere; he sees that she’s tried her best to learn all about the history of Fodlan, and herbs, and fishing. Jeralt’s rod is propped in the corner. An exquisite tea set that he can tell was gifted by Ferdinand sits prominently on the counter, as well as a box labeled “Lost Items”. 

He could search the room up and down for the Sword of the Creator or anything to undermine the church, but that’s underhanded even for him. She wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave anything incriminating around, anyway. He checks her vitals; she’s fine. He starts to slip out, only to hear her murmur one last thing. 

“I wish you didn’t hate me.”

His hand stills before the doorknob. 

“I don’t hate you.”

“Mm. Just what my dream would say.”

His traitorous heart thrums in his ears all the way back to his room.

* * *

Edelgard and Hubert meet the next morning, in early hours, to discuss their next move. 

“Hubert, she was gifted her powers by the goddess. We may have to move against her soon.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She looks at him, annoyance breaking through. “Hubert- does that not concern you? That we may cross blades one day soon and kill or be killed?”

“That has always been the plan, has it not?” He says coolly.

He knows another reason why he’s always kept the professor at arm’s length. These idyllic days were never going to last forever. They never had a chance, Rhea’s pet project and a vassal of the Emperor about to tear down the world for humanity’s sake. 

“Hubert, are you not fond of her?”

“Do you doubt my ability to do what needs to be done?”

“That’s not an answer to my question, Hubert.” Edelgard says with an impatient sweep of her arm.

“My feelings are irrelevant on this path we walk.” Silently, he begs, _Lady Edelgard, please leave this be._

“Hubert, we’ve known each other since we were children. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you like someone and before you deny it, let me remind you that I know you well. Better than anyone. Hiding your feelings from me will do you no good.”

He has to subtly swallow down a laugh. _If only you knew how good I am at it, my lady._ “You are astute, Lady Edelgard.”

Her mouth drops open. “So it is true! You do like her. Dorothea and I discussed it, and I thought you’d deny it to the grave, but you haven’t even once. You must like her a great deal. Hubert- I’m so sorry.”

That shocks him. “What do you have to apologize for, my lady?”

“I am the one who put you on this path, and now we potentially face...someone we both care about deeply. Yet- I have no plans to falter now, or ever.”

“Nor do I. Again, it was my choice- and a great honor to follow you. To walk alongside you. Whoever stands in our way will be vanquished.”

“No matter the cost?” Edelgard asks, face unflinching. 

“No matter the cost.”

Their story never had a happy ending, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just churning these out, huh? To be fair large chunks of this story have been sitting in my drafts for a while, and writing has become my coping mechanism for a lot of things. My update schedule will slow down in a bit, once I've run out of buffer. I also just finished Crimson Flower again, and have lots of feelings. 
> 
> Also I like to think Hubert sometimes calls Edelgard "my lady". Yes, my fanfic roots are in Dragon Age. Concrit and comments welcome! Some lovely ones left last chapter, many thanks. : )


	3. Chapter 3

He travels across all of Fodlan that fateful moon, speaking to sympathetic generals across the nation. There’s war preparations with Ladislava, Metodey, Randolph and countless others, as well as conversing with Arundel and the Slitherers. He slips in and out of the monastery with ease, only in the cover of night.

He doesn’t let himself miss the professor one bit. He doesn’t let himself think of her, of what she will think of all this. He doesn’t consider how she might feel betrayed, or how she might look when they have to fight her. He doesn’t worry about her, or check up on her, or have his spies tell him how she’s faring in the aftermath of her transformation. His head is empty of all except the upcoming battle. 

* * *

He prepares himself to be transported to the Holy Tomb from above, fingernails digging into his palms. The professor accompanied the Emperor to her coronation, but that means nothing. A parting gift, perhaps. Byleth is no fool - she knows something is happening. She even asked Edelgard about him. 

He doesn’t let himself look at Byleth when Edelgard reveals everything. Even after Byleth steals back every Crest Stone, and she’s standing by Rhea, sword drawn. 

Yet, as ever, she surprises him once again. He’s speechless when she walks over to their side, flanking Edelgard. 

“You! How dare you!”

“Professor..I...thank you.” Edelgard says, sounding stunned. “But are you certain - no, this isn’t the time for discussion.”

He warps behind them and can only croak out, “Words cannot properly express my gratitude, Professor.”

Rhea makes some impassioned, insane speech and transforms into the monstrous dragon that Hubert and Edelgard have always suspected her to be underneath the benevolent headmistress exterior. He laughs. But they must flee - though Byleth pauses for a second.

“You experimented on me as an infant and told me nothing, lied, have given me no reason to trust you,” Byleth snarls. “I know who you are, Seiros. I know you’ve lost everything but I am not your vessel, your lapdog, your creation or your savior. I’m my own. I’ve seen the world you’ve made in your image, where you have no second thoughts sending sons and brothers to kill their own and make unilateral executions. So I’ll do what I must and help correct your mistakes. I pass judgment on _you_ \- you are unfit to lead anything, let alone a religion. So - you want my heart? Come and get it.” 

The Immaculate One roars once more. “You ungrateful child!” 

“Bite me, _bitch_ ,” Byleth says, making a rude gesture as they warp out.

* * *

She turns to Edelgard when they get to the provisional camp, looking apologetic. “Sorry, that was too much, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have taunted her, I was just-”

Edelgard hugs her. It’s brief, but Byleth is still extremely surprised. “That was magnificent,” Edelgard says, once she steps away, blushing. “Never apologize.”

* * *

Byleth takes count of the non-Empire recruits. Lysithea, Mercedes, Annette, Marianne, Ashe, Shamir and Alois. Everyone seems resolved except for Annette - she almost wishes the girl hadn’t followed them in the fray and just stayed with her father, though he’s a deadbeat. Annette had scrunched up her adorable face after her initial hesitation, though, and resolutely said, “Mercie is here, with her brother. So I’m here. Don’t tell me to go,” and that had been that. 

She’s sitting in a corner, hand tight on the hilt of her sword, when she hears approaching steps. She doesn’t look up. She knows who it is. They’d talked briefly before - he’d bowed to her, requested her to bring morale up, and asked it from the bottom of his heart. She’d nodded, hadn’t yelled, _so when were you going to tell me about any of this, asshole?_ Like she’d initially wanted to. But deep within she’d suspected. Edelgard had dropped hints and so had he - he must have thought at one point they’d have to kill each other.

_But here I am._

She knows why he could’ve never told her, knows now why he was gone that whole month. Everything’s changed between them - equal footing now that she’s really proven to be on their side. 

“That was quite some speech you gave to Rhea,” he says conversationally. “A spectacular display of burning bridges, I must say.”

She finally glances upward. His expression is so far into relief it’s unreadable, shadowed by the dark, deep shadows the makeshift fires behind them cast. “Meant every word. Still doubting my allegiance?”

“No. I don’t.” He says shortly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he keeps them behind his back in parade rest. This woman finds any and every way to keep him off-balance, it seems. He’s still reeling from her pledge to them and is trying to find the right words. _Thank you. Her Majesty needs you. I need you. I’m happy you’re here with us, more than I can put into words. I want to tell you everything._

“Hubert-”

“Professor-”

They both begin at the same time, then stop. It’s Byleth who breaks the silence, “I think you all can call me by my name, now, seeing as I’ve probably been fired.” 

“Garreg Mach will never see a finer teacher, for what it’s worth,” he replies sincerely. 

Her mint eyes snap to his, and they’re wide with shock before she shutters them again. She looks away, addressing the air next to him, and says, “I missed you these last few weeks.”

His heart leaps into his throat. He clears it, as if that will help. “You flatter me.”

“I speak only truth,” she says. 

“Byleth- will you wait for me? After this battle is done? There is...much to discuss. Much I want to reveal to you, now that we are unequivocally on the same side.” 

Her answering smile is tentative but could light up the halls of the Enbarr palace alone. “Yeah. That sounds good. When...when this is over, and we take Garreg Mach.” 

He doesn’t get the chance.

* * *

He screams her name after she falls into the abyss, and all the Black Eagles have to drag them back from the pit as he and Edelgard run towards it, the Immaculate One’s powerful wingbeats throwing them to the ground. His mouth is full of concrete rubble and blood, and yet he can’t stop screaming until his throat is raw. Linhardt warps them to a safe distance and he comes close to taking his head off. 

It’s Jeritza who knocks him unconscious with the back of his scythe just as he watches Edelgard put her head in her hands.

* * *

They search for a year before giving up. He still comes back every year when he can, after, waiting and aching and missing her. Linhardt proposes that she’s sleeping to recover, as there is some evidence Nabateans such as the Immaculate One - who he theorizes must have implanted some of her blood in Byleth - have entered long periods of rest in order to recover from their wounds. No one says _what if she never wakes in their lifetime,_ especially around him or Her Majesty. 

He throws himself into his work even more so than before. 

His emperor visits his office one night. It’s midnight as he sits in his Minister’s chair, too cushy and velvet for his taste, overlooking battle formations and signing papers - for resources, for planned assassinations, for journeys he must make soon. 

“Hubert, you need more rest. I’m ordering you to take three days. I’d make it a week, but I know how stubborn you insist on being.”

“There’s much to do, Your Majesty, and we haven’t won yet. There’s no time to waste.” 

“Hubert. You and I, we’ve never been ones to grieve like others do. But- even I will say that sometimes, one must rest. I miss her too. So dearly. But working yourself to death won’t bring her back nor will it help the Empire. You’re of no use to me like this.”

He feels his shoulders shake. Whether from sadness, dehydration, sleeplessness or lack of food, he doesn’t know. He must have been working for three days straight, at that point, only taking sips of water. He blames his state for the foolish words he says next. 

“I was going to- I was going to tell her.”

His lady wraps his arms around him. He takes his rest and they never speak of that night again.

* * *

Aside from a few shaky nights, he never lets himself lose faith again. He doesn’t. He waited for Edelgard for years to return even if she returned hair colorless and colder than a Faerghan tundra; he’d wait decades more in worse climes for Byleth to awaken and lead them all into glory again. 

He and Shamir make unlikely friends, in the wake of her disappearance. They both enjoy coffee and have no aversion to blood. One day, he finds her in the dining hall, and they silently sit in pleasant companionship until both leave without a farewell. 

They talk about her a handful of times. Nothing notable, just brief mentions in passing. Until she asks, as they’re doing night watch and patrolling the grounds, abruptly, “You don’t plan on giving up on her, do you?” 

“No. What brought up this line of questioning?” 

“I swore to myself a decade ago I wouldn’t let myself stay for a ghost again.” 

Ah. Her partner in the Dagda and Brigid War. 

“We are awaiting her return, not chasing at spirits. I’d hold your tongue if I were you.” 

Shamir learned to recognize his threats as his language a while back and tosses her head as if he’d just congenially remarked upon the weather. “She’s really inspired some loyalty in you kids.”

“That’s hardly - we are not exceedingly far in age.”

“Gone through two wars, now - all of you look like children to me.”

He huffs disapprovingly, crossing his arms. A reflection of a smile flits across her face like light in a river, though he could’ve imagined it - it’s winked away before he can examine her closer. 

“Regardless, she is no ghost. She escaped the darkness of Zahras and tore through the sky - Byleth is no ordinary woman.”

Shamir looks over the monastery - they’re crossing the bridge now to the cathedral - and sighs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”

“My loyalty is, I’m told, one of my strong suits, Ms. Nevrand.” He adjusts the cuffs of his gloves. “Regardless, I have appreciated you staying this long, despite your doubts.” 

“Ugh, fine, you’re not a child - don’t call me Ms. Nevrand, I’ll feel ancient. Don’t thank me. Her Majesty signs my paychecks, and that’s it.” She says, blank face reminding him of Byleth’s early days at the monastery. Inscrutable.

“And it had nothing to do with Byleth?”

Now, she shrugs. “So what if it did?”

He eyes her. “You’re not as neutral as you seem.” 

“And you’re not as above it all as you seem, either. I’ve seen you with the rest of your House, with Caspar, Linhardt. You told Byleth you couldn’t do it, but you encourage them in your own way. I can see why she liked you.” She smiles, a real smile, and Hubert’s flabbergasted.

He freezes on the spot at the last sentence. “I - excuse me?”

Shamir snorts, continuing to walk, leaving him there. “ _Kids._ ”

* * *

Still, they all feel the loss of her keenly, Her Majesty most of all. He’s spotted, briefly, the portrait she made of her. It’s beautiful, though she’d shrieked upon his seeing it and locked him out of her room for weeks. Dorothea’s already composing songs with Annette about Byleth, both of them huddled over a table talking about cataloguing moments of history. Caspar and Alois, from his observation, grieve primarily through shouting at each other until Linhardt and Shamir drag them away respectively by the ear. 

In her prolonged absence, his want for her only grows, like a gnawing emptiness that can only be sated by her smile, her laughter, her acerbic intelligence, her unique diligence. He compares her to Lady Edelgard, only to find that they’re - different, though similar. Both are amazing women in their own right, shakers of the world just by virtue of their existence. He would lay everything at their feet, and he knows how much Her Majesty loves her, too. 

He will always love Edelgard - yet this bubbling feeling in his chest whenever he thinks of Byleth is entirely distinct, closer to love than hate in a new way. His father - long dead, and may he burn in hell - would laugh at him for leaving himself open to such weakness, flights of fantasy, ridiculous entreaties of sentiment. His parents had wed only for political reasons - and when he’d come out with a Crest Marquise Vestra had ignored his mother entirely to educate him and train him for his purpose to serve the Empire, Hubert would learn later in life. When his mother - Euphenia - had tried to teach him to lead first with his humanity, his father had her executed for making their son “soft”. This was before he even knew Edelgard - he had been five years old. 

_The only real gift you can give anyone is your strength. Use. Anything else makes me - this family - fallible. Understand?_

He’d spent decades hating, loathing, resenting. 

_I hope you die in a gutter choking on your own blood._

_You did it all - kidnapping my reason for living, torturing me and her, spitting on everything this family stood for, killing Mother - without any consequences. You don’t get to live peacefully, thriving on your ill gotten reputation and nobility. I am your reckoning. I am your harbinger. I will destroy you, just as surely as I will destroy those who experimented on Her Majesty and brought her so much pain. I’ll kill you with my own two hands, and it will be a pleasure._

_I hope you get set ablaze. Only fire can come close to cleansing you of your sins._

_I’ll kill you._

_I’ll kill you._

The thoughts a constant mantra at every family dinner. 

The stricken expression the Marquise had when he realized Hubert had come to end him was one he’d savored. 

_What are you doing, my son?_

_You’ve outlived your utility, Father. Lady Edelgard suggested I just imprison you, but that would be a fate worse than this, wouldn’t it? To live, knowing almost everything you’d done was a waste._ He’d said. _Consider this my gift to you, you insipid wretch._

The sound of the blade swishing down had felt like a homecoming. Everyone in the Imperial army had looked at him differently afterwards. They whispered about him, they expected him to be wracked with guilt or pain or nightmares from the remorse. He had hardly felt anything aside from exaltation. 

He had resigned himself to a political marriage like his parents’, but with Edelgard about to tear down nobility, he suddenly felt himself freed of the notion. In the world they were about to create, he could be anyone, do anything, be with anyone - even though the very concept was ridiculous and he would go on to serve Edelgard for the rest of his life. But with the specter of his father no longer looming over him, he could maybe even let himself fall for someone, regardless of its purpose.

 _For a woman who isn’t even here._ He thinks. Oh, how far he has fallen.

* * *

He tries not to think of her but he dreams. He dreams like he’s never dreamt before - vivid, technicolor, iridescent. He dreams of seeing her again, of apologizing, of neon wastelands and dark holographic dreamworlds where he chases after her shadow yet grasps at nothing. Sometimes his dreams are even kind and he can touch her, and she does not recoil. At the height of his desires he dreams of her in that lustrous, resplendent dress, dancing with her, bowing his head to finally capture those full lips with his. In these lurid, prurient fantasies, he swallows up her laughter, her luminosity, her everything, and she responds in turn like she could ever love him, ever want him, ever need him the same way. 

_You fool._

* * *

Years pass, and the millennium festival - or what would have been - is upon them once more. They’re still in the monastery - he’s visited her parents’ graves often, as has the whole House. There are always fresh flowers lain there. 

Her Majesty, the day of the festival, calls for an urgent war council of the Strike Force in the audience chambers. The messenger sounds hopeful. Something to turn the tide, perhaps? 

Then Byleth walks in as if the last five years never even happened.

* * *

She’s having a hard time wrapping her head around five years until she steps in and sees all her students, taller, wiser, each more lovely than the next, gathered around and everyone so glad to see her. She’s happy she’s still wearing heels; even Bernadetta seems to be towering over her. 

Hubert’s the only one who doesn’t say anything. She’s struck dumb by how much more handsome he’s gotten - his chiseled cheekbones, his outfit dark and lethal, his hair shorter and tousled. She doesn’t even try to hide her appraisal, and when she finally meets his eyes his gaze could melt iron. His eyes sweep across her form and he doesn’t even bother to hide the slow pace at which he stares at her, as if cataloguing her whole body. His face doesn’t change much, but he looks like a starving man ready to devour. She manages to tear her eyes away from him, blushing ever so slightly. Dorothea, who misses nothing, smirks in her direction and nudges Hubert, whispering something that he ignores. 

Edelgard, after her speech, gives both of them a pointed look once everyone else files out. “I’ll give you two some time alone,” she says, and she even winks at Byleth. 

_What the hell is happening here._

Her body is buzzing with an anticipation she can’t even name, and when Edelgard sweeps out of the room Hubert advances towards her like a man on a mission. She takes an unconscious step backward, and is against the wall. This seems familiar, she thinks, as he brackets her with his arms, and stares down at her. _He got even taller_ , she thinks, _unfair._

“Is it really you?” He asks, throaty and deep. She shivers and his eyes seem to go wild with the movement - he’s always had a sultry whisper, but this is different. Dangerous. 

“Yes,” she says. “Who else?” 

He places one gloved hand on her cheek, marveling at her corporeality and she feels blood rush to her face. “I thought - perhaps - a dream, a trick,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad to see you alive and well.”

 _I don’t remember Hubert being this...forward and sexy,_ she thinks in a daze. _But perhaps five years has made him a more touchy person?_

He seems to shake himself out of something and steps back before she can fully appreciate their closeness, hands behind his back, gaze settled back into politeness. “I apologize,” he says. “I forget myself. I imagine this must all be disorienting for you.” 

She feels the loss of his warmth sharply but tries to recover quickly. “Yes,” she says, “but I’ll get used to it. You’ve - ah - you’ve grown, Hubert. All of you. I have much to catch up on, it seems.” 

He looks to be struggling before he speaks next. “Yes - perhaps...we could do that? Over tea? I can brief you on the situation as it is now, but I’m certain you’ll have other questions. We move out in three days, otherwise I would-”

“Hubert. I’m back. I’m not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world.” She interjects gently, not showing her surprise at his invitation. “I know we have more important things to think about, with the war efforts.” 

Later, when she’s gone from the room and he’s leaning against the wall, he thinks: _She’s correct. This is war. Having any semblance of a heart now, more than ever, is the most illogical thing I could be doing._

Yet he feels it ready to jump out of his chest, having seen her again, being able to touch her and confirm her solidity. He can’t let her go this time, not after losing her once already - before they even had a chance to begin.

* * *

She’s not used to this Hubert, with the hunted expression, who keeps her close instead of keeping his distance - on the battlefield, in the monastery, helping her when she’s clueless on something that’s happened in the last five years. She’s tempted to push him away because it’s messing with her equilibrium - to have his sizzling gold-green eyes strip away all the barriers between them. When he was just a silly crush she could avoid with the walls between them, she was safe. He was handsome back then but now he’s undeniably...gorgeous, a man apart, brooding, gothic and definitely muscled under his cape and finery. She knows he’s focused on her, as if he might blink and she’ll be gone. The intensity of his attention is electrifying. 

_Hate me again. It was easier when you hated me._ She nearly says to his face. _When you look at me like that I almost forget that you’re in love with our Emperor. Don’t make me hope, Vestra._

She starts to avoid him. She employs a messenger to be the go-between for any wartime messages until he scares the ever living shit out of the poor boy, then asks Caspar to do it, the least likely to clue in on what she’s doing. Sothis would chide her for her childishness, an echo of disapproval, but she doesn’t know what to do. 

_I can’t be by your side and…not be by your side,_ she thinks, one morning as she watches him get coffee before she ducks into the dining hall. _I can’t._

This lasts for all of two weeks before he manages to catch her fishing by the lake in the early evening. She’s cornered on the docks and curses her inability to Warp. His expression is like a gathering of storm clouds up in the distance - a terrible omen. She’s missed him, even as she’s loathe to admit it. Even as she panics, she’s relieved. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says curtly. 

There’s no point in lying, not to him. “Yes.”

He doesn’t even ask her why, just crosses his arms and waits patiently. Sign of a good torture-master, she supposes. 

“I’m confused by your new behavior,” she says honestly. It's at least part of the truth. “I thought you disliked me and I was operating from - I was being immature. I didn’t know how to come to you directly about it. I'm sorry.” 

His brow furrows. “Is it so confusing for me to want to spend time with you?”

“Yes! No. Yes. I don’t know,” she says, then puts her hand to her forehead. 

“If I am unwelcome in so doing - ”

“No! No, it’s not that. I’ve wanted us to be friendly for so long, now that it’s happened I don’t know what to do with myself. If that makes sense.”

He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Then avoidance is not the tactic to employ here, but rather, exposure. Bernadetta and I have been practicing this. For example, I once laughed as hard as I could in order to help her conquer her fear of me. In that vein, we should spend more time together, not less.”

“You- what? You laughed as hard as you could? With Bernadetta?”

“I was trying,” he says with an air of patience and innocence, “to help her master her fear.” 

“So you... _laughed_?” She asks, holding back a grin. “How did she react?”

“She attempted to stand her ground but ended up screaming and running away.” Now, a smirk was playing on Hubert’s lips, completely obvious. “My methods were ineffective in that one instance, but she did mention that it could help in the future.”

Byleth can’t restrain her grin any longer. “You did that on purpose, you- I always knew you liked provoking people.”

“You most of all.”

At that, her face glows rosy. His predatory smirk widens, and she wants to dunk herself in cool lake liquid. “You flatter me.”

“I speak only truth.” He says, and oh Saints, he was too hot and mean turning her words back around on her. She is so far gone. “Do you acquiesce to my proposal?”

“ _Um_.” Her brain shuts down.

“To spend more time together,” He prompts, that damnable, seductive, smug bastard looking so amused. 

“Yes,” she hears herself say, anything to leave the conversation. Only then does she register what she’s just agreed to and how expertly Hubert’s played her. _Wait, what?!_

If wolves could witness his look they would be green with envy. “I look forward to it, then,” he replies, then bows and turns on his heel. 

_Fuuuuuuuuuck, I’m in trouble._ She thinks, watching his cape swish away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooP okay so I just got a concussion and so that means I might be out for a while...this chapter was nearly done so I slapped it together to tide yall over until I recover, which might take a while :(. pls enjoy!! and wish me luck in my rehab lol lots of physical therapy time
> 
> also note i am more sympathetic to rhea than this fic suggests but in this fic byleth....absolutely hates rhea


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have much to say except that this is...kind of a thirsty chapter

Hubert finds Byleth in the library in the late evening, dusk illuminating the motes of dust hovering around her. Whatever she’s reading, she looks utterly engrossed - the text is not one he’s seen before. They’ve had conversations about the library’s archives, and he’s scoured every text from top to bottom by now, but maybe she’s brought her own selection? He strides towards her silent and intent.

* * *

She’s reading a book Seteth definitely didn’t approve in the monastery’s library - she and Dorothea had gotten drunk one night, deliriously intoxicated on wine and snuck in the smutty books they’d accumulated into a musty, forgotten corner and giggled madly. She’s being so brazen, reading this where anyone could see, but no one else seems to be here tonight. She’s scanning a particularly scintillating chapter and thinking about - 

_A line of heat at her back, long fingers finally degloved, plunging into the wet heat of her as he pins her against the stacks, his breath heavy and hot as she’s never heard it before and her body is pleading for more and her fingers curl at the shelf while she’s moaning-_

A cleared throat interrupts her fantasizing and she fumbles with the book spectacularly, an ensuing explosion of pages flying until the softcover lands with a thunderous thump on the floor. She shoots up from her cozy spot and recognizes the figure of black with rising hysteria. Byleth then immediately scrabbles for the book, but Hubert has it between the fingers she’d just been dreaming about and she lunges. 

Unfortunately, even with her heels, Hubert is still almost two heads taller than her. Byleth reaches futilely, pressing close to his chest without thinking, as he holds it higher than she can reach. He skims through the passage with a dispassionate air and then the slightest tinge of pink dusts his cheeks. His lips part. She lets out a silent cry and throws her entire weight at him in desperation, only to bring both of them tumbling onto the floor gracelessly, book falling somewhere beyond them. They’re close, much too close, for a moment as she stares into his wide eyes wondering again at their color before she scrambles off him, completely embarrassed. She snatches the book and clutches it close to her chest. 

It seems like an eternity before he sits up, brushing dust off his ebony accoutrements and cape. He coughs, expression unreadable once more. “That...is not part of the Empire’s collection.” 

Byleth doesn’t reply to this, only flushes, and apologizes profusely. “I- Hubert, I’m so sorry, I just- are you alright?”

“No harm was done. I was merely curious. Where did you-” He coughs again, as if covering up the rest of his query. “I was seeking out your company for tea. If you’d be amenable.” 

Byleth tucks a stray green hair behind her ear, willing her face to go back to a normal temperature. Her entire body, gone from aroused to confused, is screaming at her to leave, but she still feels guilty for her avoidance. After taking a deep, calming breath, she schools her features into something respectable and nods. Awkwardly, she spins on her heel and bends down to shove the book on a bottom shelf, then straightens to face Hubert. His gaze drags back up to look at her and she registers, much later, that he was looking more south than was strictly polite. 

The ensuing walk outside would have been hilarious to anyone else, had they both not felt like two hideous criminals caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

* * *

Cinnamon Blend for him, Lavender for her. They’re underneath the courtyard’s gazebo, sipping quietly as she tries not to look at his hands pouring the tea and burst into flame. After a moment, he sets down his teacup and looks at her, composure regained, and says with no reticence and in cruel mockery, “So, books you’ve read recently...”

“Vestra.” She says warningly. He really shouldn’t find her blush so lovely. 

“You’ve inquired the same in the past; why shouldn’t I?” He replies, smirking. 

“I hate you.” At this, his smile only grows wider. 

“Do I deserve that? I was merely curious. We’ve talked about other literature at length; I recall when you were devouring all the Fodlan history you could get your hands on, and wanted my recommendations. But this is new. I’ve never seen you show much interest in...prurient texts.” 

“Why, is it so strange for the Ashen Demon to read filthy novels?” She asks, deciding to just lean into it despite her brain shrieking otherwise. “I’m not made out of stone, despite what the rumors say.” 

His eyes darken for a moment, before he says, “Oh, I’m pleasantly surprised. I enjoy learning more about you, and re-evaluating accordingly.” 

She mutters into her tea cup. “You wretched tease.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” She could smack him. No man that handsome should be allowed to be that pompous. 

“I said thank you,” she says with a louder voice, and tries to change the subject with little artifice. “How have you been, Hubert? I’ve been gone for a substantial amount of time.” 

He arches an eyebrow at her, but mercifully relents. He launches into a long tirade about the war and work, but she cuts him off mid-way, laughing. “I meant how are _you_ , not the war front, you devil.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I missed out on so much,” she says softly. “You all had to bear the burdens of this war alone. I missed out on all of you growing up, growing older than me, which is bizarre to think about, by the way. You’re different. Softer. Maturity looks good on you but...I worry...about when I wasn’t able to be there for you.” 

She sees his throat work at this speech, moved in his own way, and he pauses carefully. “Your absence was felt. By all of us. I tried to carry Lady Edelgard’s burden, but I am no substitute for you. Sometimes I like to imagine that you were sent to us by a rival of the goddess to bring her low.” 

“Thank you, but you do yourself a disservice,” she replies firmly. “You’re needed. Important. I cannot imagine the Strike Force without you.” 

He bows his head. “It’s strange, is it not?” 

“What is?”

“That we were once so dedicated to being rivals, and now we each find the other...invaluable.” 

“It’s not strange. It’s wonderful,” she says softly. At that he slides a look of pure molten _something_ towards her and stares so long that she starts fiddling with her hair and babbles about mighty weapons instead.

* * *

In her next visit to the library, she finds a note tucked between the pages of her book. 

_I am not well versed in erotic literature. I’m always interested in expanding my horizons. Perhaps you could field me some recommendations. - H_

Her reply is tucked into one of his favorite novels about Adrestian history, furiously scribbled. 

_Vestra, I know where you sleep. An army wouldn’t stop me._

_My, my. Have I struck a nerve? I presumed you enjoyed our literary discussions._

This is tucked in the History of Fodlan, where the next couple notes of their correspondence continues. 

_I did, which is why I know you despise tales of chivalry and saccharine romance. Of which these have- chivalry and romance may be stretching it. I know you’re just needling me. A new form of torture from you?_

_Half of it, perhaps. We only ever talked about what books I enjoyed. I’m simply curious as to what you like._

She leaves him a book, then, the spine newer and more colorful than every other book in the library. It’s a book with delicately painted pictures alongside the words, Dagdan and Brigidine mythologies and stories from far beyond Fodlan, of monsters and deals and women who trekked through long, long stretches of desert to receive justice, or enact revenge, or escape expectations. He devours the text with foreign eagerness, bizarrely touched. He can tell that this is something she well loves, and when she catches him at lunch with his head buried in it, her smile dazzles him blind. 

He tucks the book in the same spot as he found it with a note: 

_Thank you. I liked that immensely._

He leaves her his own tome: a fiction book to suit her offering. He’s always been more prone to memoirs and military texts, but he found this dark story compelling on a trip to the Capital - a mage tied to a fighter through birth and House rules, having grown up as rivals, thrown together into a deadly challenge of finding immortality amongst other scions to please their Emperor, and their slow dance into becoming inseparable in the trials that follow. There’s court politics, prodigies of several clans and an amount of fatal fights. 

He starts to keep track of what she likes, and he tries to keep up with her voracious appetite for fiction. He learns that she’s well traveled, all over the world, having read so many stories under the sun. 

_One of my favorite ways of knowing a city is through their stories._

He trades back what little he can, having spent much of his life in the Empire’s finest libraries. A lot of them are dark tales, or operatic plays Dorothea would deem too gloomy to want to star in peppered with philosophical treatises or court intrigues. 

She writes: _You don’t like happy endings._ After he sends her a tragedy masked in comedy. 

_I don’t find them realistic._ He replies, after she sends him an interesting novel with a time travel twist. 

_Even if they’re earned?_

He doesn’t reply to that, and she doesn’t comment either.

* * *

“Why can’t you talk with him in person?” Mercedes asks one day over tea. She’s only confided in Mercedes and Dorothea; she would tell Petra if not for the fact that the girl might misunderstand her and a comedy of errors would ensue. 

“It’s easier, like this,” Byleth admits. “Not being near him is easier.”

“That’s so romantic,” Mercedes sighs. “But I have to say, isn’t it a little...roundabout? At the start, you didn’t understand each other but you were around each other constantly. Now you’re both on the same page, but you barely see each other.”

“You’re not too nice to call me wishy-washy, Mercedes,” Byleth teases. “Say what you really mean.” 

“I notice that you don’t really like reaching out to others or having them see the real you,” Mercedes says, “I just want you to know that we’re here for you, if you’ll let us be.” 

Tears prickle at Byleth’s eyes unexpectedly, and she blinks quickly. “Ah,” she exhales. “I suppose I did ask for it. When did I become that easy to read? First Dorothea sees right through me after my ascension, and now you hit me with this deep observation.”

“Oh, no - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” 

Byleth shakes her head. “No, you’re right. Ever since...Father passed, I’ve been afraid to let people in. He was one of the first and few people I cared about. I had so much to occupy myself with. Revenge. My transformation. The war. We have a moment’s breath, and I’m scared to fall down the pit.” 

Tenderly, Mercedes asks, “What pit?”

“The month after...all I did was take us on missions and fight. I’m sure you remember. I was knee deep in blood and itching for a fight everyday.” 

“I do. It was scary. I was patching you up constantly.”

Byleth laughs without humor. “I know. I was really like a demon, then. I was being reckless. All I could think about was fighting. It took Felix threatening to slice my head off during sparring and yelling at me that I reminded him of the boar to snap out of it. But more than that I remember how all of you _looked_. Caspar didn’t let me fight him anymore. Lysithea begged me to be careful. She said she didn’t want to lose me too.” Her eyes water, vision wobbling as she tries to hold the tears in. “Even Linhardt and Hubert began to seem frightened, and they didn’t care when it happened.” 

“They wanted to comfort you, I think, but didn’t know how.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Byleth says. “I put you all in danger with my foolhardiness. I was thoughtless and irresponsible. I scared you. And that was the last thing I wanted to do.” 

“You were grieving,” Mercedes says tenderly. “And we had your back, and each other’s too. We were fine, if a bit shaken and concerned. But we understood. Of course we understood.”

“I know you did,” Byleth says, chest aching. “All of you lost people way before I did. Nearly every single one of you.”

“That’s why we wanted you to talk to us,” Mercedes replies. 

“I don’t know how.”

“Ah, but Byleth, you just did.”

At that, Byleth’s heart feels like it’s breaking and she abandons all kind of sense and lays her head in Mercedes’ lap. Mercedes soothingly strokes her hair. Byleth closes her eyes. 

“You’re the nicest person alive, you know that? I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” 

Mercedes laughs. “Oh, stop.” 

“I mean it.”

* * *

After some time, Byleth gets up and asks, “How’s your mother faring?” 

“Well, thank you. I think she’s still shocked both her children sided with the Empire, but she’s not too angry about it. The Kingdom’s system was never too kind to us. She’s happy to get my letters about Emile.” 

_Emile._ “I know he’s your brother, Mercedes, but he’s still the Death Knight, in some part. Just...be careful, please.”

“I will.” Then, Mercedes asks, “What are you going to do about Hubert?”

“I don’t know.” 

Mercedes hums thoughtfully. “You should give him a chance.”

“A chance to what?”

“To prove to you that you don’t need to keep your distance.” 

“But him and Edelgard-”

“A lot has changed in the last five years. I think you’d be surprised.” 

_I wouldn't bet on it_ , Byleth thinks, but keeps that to herself.

* * *

He misses her. After weeks of trading books - it’s not enough, not anywhere close to enough, though he’s grateful that she’s let him see so much of her at all. He sees her at war council meetings as they’re preparing for Derdriu, and some meals, but little else. 

He waits in the library one evening with food and wine after draping a black tablecloth over one of the tables. He clears the area by glaring at everyone until they scuttle out and leave him alone. Including the librarians, who give him the key to lock up and then run for their lives. He does appreciate the speed and efficiency of fear. 

She cooks for them - is proficient, unsurprisingly - and he’d wanted to return the favor, so he’s prepared a meal in return. Fishhead curry - she likes her foods spicy - and some steamed meat dishes. Alongside the meal, fragrant white rice form steamy clouds above as it cools in porcelain bowls. 

In a fit of inspiration he even brings in a candle and lights it with a flick of his wrist. Then he blows it out again anxiously and hides it behind a bookcase, for the setting had looked too much like a...courting. He knows his own deficiencies; to offer himself as a romantic candidate would be laughable. 

He sends for her. 

When she steps through the threshold looking worn, puzzled, yet no less stunning, he gets up so quickly his chair threatens to tip over. Her green eyes take in the scene and the exhaustion on her face falls away; her expression alights like a sunrise.

“Did you- did you do all this for me?”

“A small token of my gratitude.” He says, internally beaming. 

“Hubert,” she breathes out, and in his conjured fantasy he kisses his name out of her mouth and coaxes more out of her, the sound of it so sweet, “You didn’t have to.”

“You and Edelgard both misunderstand me,” he says. “I don’t have to do anything, nor do I feel obligated. I choose to. Now sit, and eat. You’ve been missing meals as of late.”

Her smile turns sly. “Oh, so you’re giving the commands to _me_ now?” He just about chokes, the salacious-sounding words like an arrow to the throat. In a flash he can think of nothing else but telling her to bend over as he marks her naked back with searing, biting kisses, commanding her to come, getting her to say his name over and over as she climbs upward to euphoria with his fingers between her legs...

He’s broken out of his poleaxed reverie as she continues talking, blissfully unaware of the scandalous thoughts running through his mind. 

“Besides, you only eat when one of us drags you out.”

“Then it’s a good thing I made enough for two,” he says hastily, covering up his embarrassment. He signals to the chairs and even seats her with a flourish and she smiles at him, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

As she decants some curry into a provided bowl and uses her chopsticks to pile dark brown meat onto her rice bowl, Hubert doesn’t fidget but nervously tugs at his gloves. “It may not be up to your standards...” 

She takes a bite of the meat with some rice and grins. “It’s good, Hubert. Don’t sell yourself short. C’mon, I can’t be the only one eating.” 

Relieved, he starts to do the same. For a moment, there’s only the sound of utensils against bowls. He prefers eating alone, but he likes being with her. She gets such a simple joy out of food. Before Byleth, he can’t remember how often it had been since he ate purely for enjoyment. 

After, when they’ve broken out the wine, he watches her laugh and joke and debate with him about books. While he can tell she’s not as at ease with him as he’d like, she’s more open than she’s been in the past. He can endure the burning in his chest that wants- _wants-_

 _I can be fine with this alone,_ he thinks. _To be near her is a privilege. Don’t hope for more._

* * *

When the moon is set high in the sky and the wine bottle is getting dangerously low, he asks her about her defection. 

“In all that time, reading about Fodlan,” she says, stretching in her chair, “In all that time at the monastery, so many things didn’t add up. Edelgard told me about the secret passed from Emperor to Emperor, as well. More and more things started to fall into place, more atrocities and micro-aggressions and intolerant practices. Shamir is- was the only non-believer in the Knights of Seiros, and she was regarded with suspicion, especially since she is Dagdan. Most importantly - we saw the Western Church acolytes executed without trial, and Rhea told me after...” Her face twisted. “That she wanted you, my students, all of you only teenagers then, youth under her care - she wanted you to see it as a warning. I’m disgusted by it all, and I won’t be party to it. When the time comes, I want it to be my hand that fells her.” 

Hubert sits back, impressed. “You despise her. You see her for what she truly is - a monster. I must say, I’m shocked. She showed you so much favor.” 

“Like fattening a pig before slaughter,” she says coldly. “She wanted...I can’t describe it, don’t have the words, but at the Holy Tomb...” She shakes her head. Hubert doesn’t inquire further. 

“So you don’t find yourself wondering?” He asks. “If you’d sided against us?” 

“If I had chosen Rhea and you’d both eventually tried to kill me, you mean?” 

“Yes.” There’s no regret in his voice, nor does it shake. She’s always known who he is, and he respects that she’s never shied away from it. 

“Ferdinand asked me that the other day. I could speculate, but I won’t. I’m here now. There’s nothing to do but move forward. Edelgard gave me that advice, once. A lifetime ago.”

* * *

When he walks her back to her quarters, it’s late, so he says quietly, “Thank you for spending time with me tonight.”

She stills before opening her door and turns, her answering look multilayered and complex. “Thank you for the meal. I- I’m sorry I’ve been so- distant.” 

“You were busy.” He tries to excuse her, but Byleth isn’t having it. 

“No, I was...I was scared.” She admits. 

He could slap himself. _Of course._ “I’ve been told I’m unsettling-”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s... I’ve wanted you to like me for a long time. But I worried that if you got to know me, you wouldn’t.” 

He surprises even himself. “I will not claim to know you completely. But I do - like you. I have for some time. It is upsetting to remember how I behaved so boorishly in the past, to make you think differently.” 

Boldly, audaciously, unbelievably, he does what he’s been craving the whole night; there’s a few stray hairs that he tucks behind her ear. He doesn’t let himself think about it, and when he feels her warm skin on the tip of his fingers, seeping through his gloves, he wants to back her into the wall and lay her mouth open for him until she’s moaning and wet as the women in her filthy novels. He’d pushed down the thought of her aching and aroused reading them until now, when she’s real and too pretty in front of him. Her eyes are wide and gleaming, tempting, voluptuous mouth open just enough for him to slip his fingers in and have her suck. He wants a million things. He wants to mold their lips together and torment her as she’s tormented him, he wants so badly to feel her waist underneath his fingers. He wants to strip her, knead her nipples until she’s sensitive, explore her entire body as she arches into him and dip his fingers into her, her ass grinding into him.

He’s lost in the vision of it, the image of her naked and wanton hitting him like a lightning bolt, but he withdraws before any more of his blood goes south. He swallows, once, hard. Clearly his self control is in tatters, like a starving, howling beast having been deprived of a meal. Worse, underneath all that - the rapid lust bodying him like a full hurricane - he wants more than that. He wants to sit near her by a fire, warm her with his own inadequate hands and listen to her tell stories in her smooth voice. He wants to caress the silk of her cheek and kiss her with gentleness he never could possess, he wants to hear her laugh and admonish him. He wants to wrap his arms around her after a long day. He can dismiss his physically wanting her - who wouldn’t? - but his yearning is something else altogether, perilous. Fatal. 

He mutters a quick good night and retreats before she can even reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hubert + byleth: (thirst)  
> hubert + byleth: (unwittingly flirting)  
> hubert+ byleth: this is like becoming friends, right
> 
> dumb baby jail for these two idiots
> 
> my head is still feeling kinda mushy and potato-y but i wanted to get you guys something by v day at least! enjoy : )


	5. Chapter 5

_“Your teaching style leaves much to be desired.” The words echo through the empty classroom - late sunlight filtering through and making them look like honeyed bees trapped in amber. Flickering wings, useless and trembling, caught in liquid enticement. Hubert, however, has always preferred his vinegar and poisons in lieu of flattery._

_“Oh? Some feedback you’d like to give?” The professor asks innocently, playing the struggling ingenue without any of the distress. She doesn’t seem to budge - it’s concerning, to say the least._

_“You concentrate entirely too much on building friendships, instead of establishing your authority. It’s a soft tactic, for someone who used to kill for financial sufficiency.” He says, leaning against a hardwood desk. Her expression hasn’t faltered once._

_“Yet it seems to be working. This is a matter of personal opinion, Hubert. May I give one of my own?”_

_“You would regardless of my approval, I’m sure,” the words coming out of him like a honed blade thrown across the room. She’s standing a few feet from him, spine carved into posture as perfect as a soldier’s - regarding him with the coolness that’s always annoyed him. Once, he wishes a barb would sink into her flesh._

_“You dismiss a soft approach too easily,” she says simply._

_“Do I look like someone who’s been given the option of a soft approach?” He asks acidly._

_“Have you ever tried it?” She shoots back. He wants to roll his eyes at her - he is and always has been grotesque and disturbingly creepy. A soft touch was never in his arsenal._

_He takes up his mantle of animosity once more, easily held. “The more we speak, the more I realize we could never be friends.”_

_“Color me surprised. I thought threatening me was a clear overture of friendship.” She turns to him and grins, just lips being drawn over gums to show teeth. “I don’t like you either, shadow master. But we’re in this together, so let’s play nice.”_

_“Why would I do that?” He asks, examining his glove for marks as if the conversation was no longer engaging enough to hold a shred of his attention._

_“I’m your teacher, but a commoner. Your noble standing outstrips mine immensely. You could make my life difficult, and I could do the same to you. In terms of a match, this would be a dead heat.”_

_He looks up at her with a smirk._

_“You assume I play fairly.”_

_“I guess I shouldn’t.” She shakes her head and the memory bleeds like rain drops dissolving into a stream, orange and blue and black spinning in his brain._

* * *

Hubert lies awake, staring at the ceiling. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed how beautiful she is. He knew even then, when he despised her. In an abstract way as he evaluated how best to defeat her. He wants to scream in shame - he was so hostile back then. He flips over and groans into his pillow, reproaching himself. He tries not to think about her, but it’s useless. 

She walks with the self-assured fluidity of a warrior and when she dons her uniform, he knows he’s not the only one who’s traced the long line of her legs. Her mouth is a constant distraction; the fullness of her lips just begging to be bitten and sucked and adored. When he imagines her, he can’t help but get pulled into the fantasy of sliding his bare hands up her thighs, hooking at her underwear and sliding down...

He wills his cock to deflate. The idea of palming himself to her is tempting, but he knows that it will just exacerbate whatever this...is. He wants more than just sex. He wants to know everything about her. He wants to show her Enbarr, see it through her eyes, take her to an opera if only to hear her whisper commentary to him and laugh. He wants to hold her hand through the streets of the capital. He wants to kiss away the tired lines from her face and stare at her drinking tea and... he sounds like a lovesick idiot. The thought of her has haunted him for so long and he’s spinning poetry just as they’re finally becoming friends. 

_She doesn’t want you. Who could want you, especially after you behaved like such an ass?_

He flops over in his bed and groans into his pillow again.

* * *

The defeat of Derdriu is bloody but well-fought. Claude meets them at the pier, Hubert begrudgingly impressed by his savvy. 

“Good luck to you, Edelgard.” 

Byleth moves towards Claude as if to shake his hand before he departs, but Claude swats her hand away. He opens his arms and she rolls her eyes but steps into the hug anyway. 

Hubert and Edelgard both cry out, the former in warning and the other in shock. “Claude!” 

He winks at them. Byleth has the presence of mind to hold up her hand in a ceasefire gesture so no one attacks him. 

He says shamelessly, loud enough for Hubert to hear, “If you ever get tired of tall, dark and broody, you know where to find me, Teach.” Hubert’s eyes are boring into his, and Claude just winks once more. 

She sighs. Despite her better judgment, she whispers, “Thank you. For everything,” and his chuckle is comforting and more than she deserves, given that they were close to killing both him and Hilda. She’d told Hilda to run, and thankfully, the pink haired girl had obliged. She doesn’t say _I’m sorry it came to this_ or ask him once more to _stay, lend me your strength_ or _in another world..._

But maybe he can read it in her eyes because he says, “I should’ve kissed you that night at the Ball.” 

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” She says, as impassively as she can. 

“I know. I don’t like second place, Teach. Never have, never will.” He flicks his eyes towards Hubert, looking ready to murder. Edelgard has her arm thrust out, holding him back. “Thanks for sparing Judith and Ignatz, by the way.”

“Judith can come out of hiding when she wants, you should let her know that - and Ignatz is always welcome.”

“He’ll make a great painter for the Empire, I’m sure.” Claude says, expression flickering for an eyeblink. 

She smiles sadly. “I owe him that much, I think. I came close to slicing off his art arm. I - I promise I’ll take care of your people.” 

His smile still doesn’t reach his eyes, she notes. 

“Safe travels, Claude von Riegan,” she says, chest aching dully. She feels the desperation clawing in her chest to honor their friendship in these last few moments, say the right thing that could make up for everything - spin sadness into gold. 

“I have faith in you. Don’t let her lose her way. I look forward to working with you in the future. I’ll see you, Teach...at the dawn of a new world.” He squeezes her once, lets go, gives her one last dazzling flash of amused emerald eyes and disappears on his wyvern across the wide open sea. There’s a melancholy wrapping around her as she watches his back disappear into the horizon, but she shakes it off. There’s no time to mourn another old friend lost in the haze of war - they’ve captured the Aquatic Capital, and by extension, toppled Leicester. They’ve triumphed, and yet only just begun.

Even with this sizable victory, Hubert doesn’t look at Byleth afterwards, doesn’t congratulate her and storms off after giving his report. Byleth glances over at Dorothea, who gives her most befuddled shrug. The operatic star then shoots Linhardt a weighted look. This escapes everyone else, leaving Edelgard to lead Byleth into the city, talking animatedly about their future plans now that the Alliance has dissolved. Still, Byleth shoots a look back at the dark mage, whose facial expression now resembles a closed, heavy, vaulted iron door.

* * *

“Jealous?” Linhardt asks, when he finds Hubert skulking around the docks of Derdriu as they prepare to march back to the monastery. 

“Of what?” Hubert says, pacing back and forth. He’s awaiting Count Bergliez’ messenger to return, then they’ll set off in earnest. He isn’t thinking about Claude, or Byleth in the least, or how to poison someone from across continents. 

“Please. We all saw how you were like back there. Or at least, Dorothea and I had the wherewithal to notice. Jealousy doesn’t become you, Hubert.” 

“If you insist on continuing with your nonsense I won’t hesitate to ask Her Majesty to put you in more rigorous roles, Linhardt,” the dark mage snarls. 

Linhardt puts up his hands and walks away. “Ah, my one true weakness. But take it from- well, at a stretch, a friend. Burying yourself in work won’t serve you in dealing with this.”

* * *

Later, after the messenger has been dispatched, the esteemed songstress finds him, dark red dress sweeping on the cobblestones of Derdriu. He’s less incensed, but he tenses up after Linhardt’s earlier remarks. Dorothea Arnault has never been scared of him, however, and marches up to him with acerbic green eyes, hands on her shapely hips. 

“Hubie,” The once-diva announces declaratively. “You’re going about this all wrong.” 

Hubert looks heavenward, even though the Goddess’ throne is empty. “Ah, yes. I am about to be educated on my deficiencies. Be merciless, Dorothea. Spare no detail.”

She matches his sardonic tone with added poise. “You may be the one with the schemes, but in matters of the heart, _I’m_ the expert. We’re in my territory now, Hubie. Normally, I’d charge you for my advice, but seeing as you’re a friend and comrade, I’ll save you the coin.” 

The words shoot down his spine like a cold blast of Blizzard from an ambushing enemy. “What are you talking about?” is what comes out of his mouth instead of his prevalent, blaring mental query: _Am I that obvious?_

“This whole brooding, dark, envious type might work at first, but it’s not sustainable,” Dorothea advises with an air of pity, as if imparting sage wisdom to a child. “Hot and cold, flirt with her and then turn tail the moment a rival appears from stage left - you’ve got to have guts to survive a battle of love.” 

“I have more important things to do than listen to this.” He says, mouth puckered like a lemon, not revealing his panic of having been made so easily. He turns on his heel to leave, like the lucid part of him isn’t morbidly curious as to what other insights Dorothea has on his chances with Byleth. 

“Really?” Dorothea drawls. “I guess I’ll just go find Byleth, dress her up and we can go to town. As we all know, she cleans up _so_ well, and there are plenty of young, hot men and women in Derdriu. Or maybe I’ll just make a move myself. We all know you’ve had plenty of time to make yours, and _I’m_ not getting any younger.” 

Hubert stops but doesn’t face her. That alone is enough. 

Dorothea folds her arms. “Manuela and I had to claw and fight our way through the ranks to become the diva stars we are, and we never faltered just because another leading man or woman tried swooping into the wings. Anyway, what I’m saying is, Claude’s halfway across the sea by now, and all you’re doing now is pushing the woman you like further away when she’s just stopped avoiding you. You should sweep her off her feet! We’re in the Aquatic capital, one of the most beautiful cities in Fodlan. Where’s the operatic Hubert I know? Or is that only when it applies to someone you’d never even let yourself be with?” 

The last one stings. Hubert turns, slowly, his voice down to a deadly hiss. “You are ridiculous and out of line with your impudence. This is your first warning, Dorothea: Tread carefully.” 

Dorothea’s completely unfazed, her green eyes snapping and whipping with fury. She continues on without any regard for his malice or her own safety. “But I’m right. You know I’m right. You’re only ever brave when it’s other people’s hearts serving collateral, is that it?” 

If her last query was a hewn sword, this last one is the proverbial sledgehammer. He doesn’t know how his face is arranged, only that he manages to verbalize: “It’s not that easy. I do not possess - charm or looks like you. I do not know how to convince her, to amend for my past transgressions, to find the words - I do not know how to do this. I am a man unworthy of her - ”

“Let her make that choice, not you,” Dorothea replies, relentless and level. “Don’t sell yourself short, Hubert. You’re an infuriating stick in the mud, but you’re a good man. Say you’re sorry. Do that weirdly charming thing where you dazzle her with your dark humor and singleminded focus. Some girls like a brooding man, to a degree.” 

Hubert has no idea how to respond to this except with an uncertain, “Thank you?”

Dorothea tosses her considerable dark tresses back like she’s posing for a portrait of her inimitable likeness. “You’re welcome.” Her expression melts into something gentler. "Promise me something?" 

"What is it?"

"If an opportunity should present itself, be brave." 

"Be brave," he rolls the words around in his mouth, the taste of it new. "I will try, if nothing else." 

* * *

When Edelgard says Caspar has entreated they stay, at least a few of them, a bit longer in order to see and greet his father, Hubert’s gut knows somehow that Dorothea has pulled the strings. However, he’s cut off from analyzing this when Byleth emerges by his emperor’s side, grinning. 

He feels his entire body threaten cardiac arrest. Her hair is in a ponytail, wisps framing her face just so - her eyes sparkling like leaves in spring. She’s fitted in a tight red dress with a high, stiff neckline buttoned at her throat. Behind her, scarlet open cape sleeves flow, slit just halfway down her arms. Barely covering her legs is the skirt - higher than her school uniform, revealing tantalizing lengths of thigh that he could skim and separate with his fingers, could yank that skirt up just an inch, slide past her underwear and find her slick and wanting, could slot a leg in between and rock against her until she mewled and begged him for more. He shifts, warm, pants already too tight. If he thought she looked luminous and moondewed in that dress five years ago, now she looks like a conflagration, a flame with mint hair. Bright, bold, burning. There are triangular cut outs at her waist, nipping in her hourglass figure. He can feel his mouth water at the bare skin there and gulps it down. Dorothea and Linhardt are looking at him with matching knowing smiles. He makes a mental note to give them both food poisoning later. 

“Her Majesty and I match, now! It was Dorothea’s idea,” Byleth elaborates when Ferdinand is the first to gasp and compliment her profusely. Edelgard smiles fondly. 

Dorothea explains, “I just thought it would be appropriate! I joined you in the city for just a moment and noticed you were looking at that dress, anyway.” The brunette steps forward and pins a gold eagle brooch to her lapel, completing the look. Edelgard shoots him a smirk, and for all the burning fires in Hell, is the whole House in on this scheme? He’d be proud if he wasn’t also furious and embarrassed. Then Her Majesty is murmuring and conferring with Caspar and Linhardt before she clears her throat and addresses the Strike Force.

Her Majesty announces, “Some of you will be staying behind in Derdriu. Jeritza, Lysithea, Ashe, Marianne and Alois have elected to stay in the monastery. Since Manuela and Hanneman are already at the monastery, I should be able to relieve you of your duties while Ladislava or Randolph can pick up any other slack. I grant you five days of rest. Byleth, Ferdinand, Hubert, Petra, Dorothea, Linhardt, Bernadetta, Caspar, Annette, Mercedes and Shamir - you’ve all been carrying a lot of weight. Consider this the first, last and only rest you’ll get before we begin our attack on the Kingdom in earnest.” 

A murmur ripples through the Strike Force who’ve been told to stay, though it’s overall joyous. Hubert immediately shakes his head. “We have no time for such frivolities-”

“Are you questioning my judgment?” 

“We could be attacked at the home base-”

“Our numbers are overwhelming, and they were even before we claimed the Alliance. I’m granting you all a brief reprieve; unless Rhea and Dimitri somehow secure a magical army in less than a week, or Claude has somehow decided to launch an ambush from his wyvern alone, this is something we can afford. You are given liberty, Hubert. This is a direct order from your Emperor. Now, will you shame me with further inquiries, or will you be thankful?”

He’s outclassed, and he knows it. He sighs. “I’m grateful for your grace, Your Majesty.” Edelgard smiles. 

“Please enjoy yourselves for me,” Her Majesty says to the larger crowd. “I wish I could stay with you.”

“We’ll all come back together when the war’s over,” Dorothea promises. “I’ll buy you souvenirs in the mean time. Lots of sweets.”

“Dorothea, don’t say that so loudly,” Edelgard hisses, walking over and taking her arm. 

“But you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” Dorothea says nonchalantly. Edelgard drags her away, as they have their own conversation to the side. 

Caspar is bouncing up and down with excitement. “Edelgard says our lodging’s gonna be at some fancy merchants’ place. It’s gonna be sweet, I bet they have some cool weapons. You guys can meet my father, too!” 

“No offense, Caspar, but I’ve seen your father plenty of times. I’m more excited about having a nice, soft, noble’s bed,” Linhardt says. “And a gigantic bath you could drown in.”

Bernadetta is over the moon. “A nice, huge place I can hide in? Count Bernie in!”

Annette and Mercedes are already planning on all the best places to shop, Ferdinand joining them with a tea lover’s lens, as Shamir and Hubert linger by the side looking sullen and disapproving together. Byleth is roped into the former group’s chat as they gush over her dress and plead for her to join them. 

Shamir addresses him, “Want to join your princess in going home? Or are you staying?”

He ignores this and volleys back, “Do you plan to linger? How...whimsical of you.” 

“I’ve been called many things. Whimsical has not been one of them. I’m not staying. Alois is useless without me. So you can rest easy if you’re worried about the home base. Unless you’re still worried about my loyalty to my employer.” 

“Her Majesty,” he corrects. 

Shamir doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s close. “The songstress and the sleepy mage are planning something, presumably involving you and our commander. Stay on your guard.” 

“I didn’t realize you were so concerned about me.” He says tauntingly. 

“I’m concerned about Byleth.” She replies dismissively. 

“You wound me.” 

“When I wound you, Minister, you’ll know it. I’ll say to you what my former partner liked to say. Nut up or shut up.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re an intelligent man, Hubert. I trust you’ll understand, given time,” Shamir smiles ominously, before she bids him a brief farewell and shuffles into the neverending sea of soldiers trailing his emperor. Hubert wonders when he became the subject of cryptic speeches instead of the deliverer. He resolves to remedy that as soon as they're out of Derdriu. The next few days would serve to be interesting, at least. He looks at Byleth again, the beauty of her impossible to ignore, and swallows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhhh, I've been staring at this chapter forever. This and the next one were going to be one whole chapter, but it was getting looooong. I hope you guys enjoy! It's not perfect - god, I'm such a perfectionist - and i was close to scrapping it all and starting over, but if I strove for utter perfection the story would never get finished. Also does this fic exist so I can put Byleth in a million different dresses? answer: yes.
> 
> ANYWAY DISCLAIMER OVER, HOPE YOU ENJOYED, STAY TUNED, THANK YOU ALL AGAIN FOR THE KIND COMMENTS


	6. Chapter 6

The estate is a manor built on merchant-lain luxury, belonging to two ladies of a minor house pledged to their cause. The couple are currently in Adrestia stimulating the economy and networking - they've gladly volunteered their land in the meantime. The floors are pearlescent, the walls and windows gleam like gold and the staff are attentive, the result of being paid handsomely. The whole effect is an opalescent monster of excess, but Hubert will admit it is fun to watch Caspar and Linhardt teach Petra how to sock slide in the gleaming halls as Mercedes and Annette try to pull Bernadetta away from her room for a lesson of her own. Ferdinand’s booming laughter echoes alongside Dorothea’s giggles through the reception chamber. Byleth watches from above, perching on the grand steps with a smile tugging around her lips. 

That night, they eat in the glistening banquet hall. Dorothea and Byleth, united as the two commoners in the room, look out at the expanse - candles casting amber light on the paintings on the red walls, floral arrangements in marble vases, more forks than they know what to do with set on the table. They raise their eyebrows at each other, knowing the rest are acclimatized to this sort of luxury, all nobility except Mercedes, who grew up in a noble house. Neither of them make any comment, as everyone’s tense and exhausted after a hard-fought battle. The first course is rousing in a way only good food can be. Caspar practically inhales his meal and starts waving a drumstick around, Ferdinand and Linhardt both lecture him on eating and soon there’s a lively discussion as the group’s voices intermingle and overlap under the tasteful chandelier.

Hubert tries not to sneak glances at Byleth across the table during dinner but he fails - his eyes are drawn to her as she smiles and chats with Dorothea. She looks happy, peeled out of her armor and not worn down with worry from war. He lets the wave of his friends’ voices wash over him, tension leaking from him like a sieve. He never lets himself feel safe these days, trusts few, but there’s something to be said for the comrades he’s come to care for. Annette and Bernadetta are sharing each other’s desserts - he’s mutedly proud of the Varley heiress for how far she’s come since they knew each other as children, though he’d never tell her. Mercedes is accepting some of Ferdinand’s tea, Linhardt and Dorothea are having a hushed conversation and Petra and Caspar are still eating, the two of them having the biggest appetites of them all. 

Byleth, after dinner, retreats into the huge shower she’s been given and scrubs the blood, sweat and dirt off her. She stands under the stream for what seems like ages before she emerges, feeling freshly renewed. She tries to shut off the lights and go to sleep, but even with her shower-induced relaxation her mind can’t stop churning, so she gives up. Byleth throws on a simple maroon dress and goes to explore the exterior grounds before she goes stir-crazy from pacing in their gilded villa.

* * *

Hubert’s poring over territory transition papers and Alliance requisitions shortly after dinner, having pried them off a messenger on his way to Her Majesty. Their gardens are excellent, exquisitely topiaried and well-kept, the crickets nightsong keeping him awake in lieu of his usual dose of coffee. He’s lit a lamp by the darkest gazebo in the blackest corner of the grounds. After years of secluding himself in his office or otherwise, he’s made it a habit to start doing work in more pleasant places. Additionally, the manor is smaller than the monastery - he’s avoiding Dorothea and Linhardt. Not many shadowy corners to slink around in there, though he’s found a few empty rooms that could double as interrogation chambers in a pinch, if necessary. 

However, he forgot to account for Byleth’s penchant for wandering outside. She hovers on the opposite side of his table, looking wry and vaguely accusatory. 

“You never stop working, do you?” She asks, shaking her head. “You realize why Her Majesty was so adamant we stay, don’t you?”

“After thinking on Her Majesty’s position, I realize it was an impeccable strategic move,” he states with confidence, “For us to remain in the Aquatic Capital, an elite force positioned at the stronghold while we acquire the Alliance’s assets so as to present a strong front, as well as lure the Kingdom into a false complacency.”

“Perhaps,” Byleth allows, “But the main purpose was to get all of us - especially _you_ \- to relax.” 

“To rest in war is weakness,” Hubert replies. 

“To rest in war is wise,” she corrects. “You asked me a long time ago to keep up morale. You know the value of repose. The paperwork can wait. Do me a favor. Breathe with _me_ for an evening.” She holds out her palm. He bobs his head to his papers and then up to her outstretched hand, her smile a miraculous, small thing. Reluctantly, he lets himself be pulled until they’re at the estate walls. She jumps up to the top easily, then signals he should follow. His mage abilities have only heightened since his Dark Bishop certification, so he levitates until she can pull him up and then he realizes that the manor is sitting atop a small hill, overlooking Derdriu. Even now, with the city mostly evacuated, there are still gondoliers out in the water systems, lights shimmering wet and bright in the distance, the golden city even more beautiful in the rippling refractions of moonlight over buildings. It’s not Enbarr - but it’s breathtaking nonetheless. This height makes him slightly dizzy but she turns to him and grins, and it ebbs away. They seat themselves on the edge of the wall, her legs kicking out as they soak in the view.

“So what was all that, earlier?” She asks, peering into his face as if to puzzle out the answers she wants. He tries not to flail. _Too close._ Instinctively he draws away and she backs off, thankfully, but doesn’t take her eyes off him.

“Hm?” He murmurs, all feigned innocence.

“You looked pissed. After I talked to Claude.” She points out.

“I didn’t realize you and Claude were on such friendly terms,” Hubert finds himself saying with some rising alarm. He coughs, nervous at the thought of giving himself away. 

“We were...friends, yes, back in the monastery,” Byleth responds, looking wary and then turning away from him. 

He struggles to pick the wording of his next query delicately and to appear as casual as possible. “Did you...hold him close to your heart? More than friends, perhaps?”

That gets her undivided attention. She swings a gaze of verdant, piercing pale green his way. 

“I- his farewell may have given you the wrong impression. We were just friends. Besides, he was a student.” She stutters out.

“His ascension to Almyran king may make you reconsider that position.” He replies coldly.

“Still doubting my loyalties, after all this time?” She takes the sting out of her words with a tilt of her head as if she’s amused. 

At that he shakes his head. “No, I would not do you the disservice. I- trust does not come easy to me. That is all. But my suspicions are unworthy of me, as you’ve demonstrated time and time again. I suppose I will admit that I was...jealous.” He tries to retain a shred of dignity in the face of this admission, but fails utterly. 

“Jealous?” She’s floored.

“Jealous of your prior friendship,” he explains after some quick thinking. “Our...acquaintance was first mired in malice. Even now, I feel as if I do not have the privilege of being as familiar with you as the others. Even Claude, in our academy days, knew you better than I did.”

“Well that’s easily remedied, then,” she says promptly. The faint light extracted from the city shines faintly on her face. “Ask me anything.”

“Anything?” _Risky territory, von Vestra._ He scolds himself. _You’ve already shown too much of your hand._

“I swear to answer truthfully.” She crosses over her heart with her finger. 

He hums thoughtfully. “Were you looking for me, earlier?”

“That’s what you want to ask?” She asks teasingly. 

“Are you dodging the question?” He responds in turn. 

“I suppose,” she says after a pause. 

“You should not worry about me, Byleth, but yourself,” Hubert argues. 

She arches an eyebrow. “Another threat? Aren’t we past that?”

“We embroiled you in a five year war after you nearly died,” Hubert says tenderly. “I’ve been a great source of that pressure, asking you to take care of Her Majesty and the Strike Force where I failed. Anyone would be feeling the strain. Even a god. If anyone should be taken care of, it is you.”

She looks at him with eyes like arrows. “ _You_ have been talking with Mercedes.”

He avoids her gaze. “Perhaps.”

She sighs. “She and I have the same problem, I think. We’re always trying to take care of everyone else.”

“So how are you faring? Truly?” His stare gleams in the night like a beacon, and she knows she can’t lie to him. 

“Truly? I feel displaced. I feel like a person out of time. I feel like I barely got to grieve for my father before we took up arms with the people who killed him. I’m worried that I’ll lose another person in this war - it’ll be my fault, and I won’t be able to get back up ever again. I know we’ll win, but I see Edelgard - not as just emperor, but a girl who never got to be seventeen, like it or not. We’ve lost so much we can never get back, Hubert. I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m happy that we’re all together. I’m a million things I don’t know how to reconcile. How do you _think_ I am?” The brusque words ring throughout the quiet scene, and she winces, the ambiance completely ruined. But she can’t regret her words. He asked. 

He bows his head at this. “I am sorry. I cannot tell you how much.”

“Will sorry bring him back?” She snaps, the brink of rage bringing her to the edge easy as rain with a quickness that shocks her. “If I said I would go to them right now and scatter them across the soil, damn the consequences, what would you do?”

His answer shocks her. “I would help you do it.” 

She tries to gather herself. “Even if it meant defying - ”

“Her Majesty despises them as much as you do, I think. But no matter what, I would aid you. It is the least I could do.” 

She’s flabbergasted, then composes herself. There’s a long silence that stretches into the night, then he breaks it. 

“Nothing can make up for what I’ve asked of you, for what I’ve said, for what I’ve done. I don’t deserve forgiveness nor your kindness after everything. Yet, I find myself hoping for anything you would be willing to give, and you’ve extended your hand in friendship. More than I could have dreamed.”

“Hubert,” she says delicately, “You may not deserve it, but I forgive you. Not for you, but for myself. I chose this path. Though I may have to hold you to your word, someday.” She blows out a big breath and watches the flow of the sea. “I know your loyalty, in any measure, is a gift not easily bestowed. I’m - I’m honored.”

He smiles without malice, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t leer, and it’s a rare sight to behold. “I have another question.”

She steels herself. “Shoot.”

He taps his chin with his finger as if deep in thought. “Did you really think I was a vampire?”

She breaks out into surprised laughter.

* * *

The bedrooms they have for guests are excessively opulent. In the morning, Dorothea, Byleth, Petra, Mercedes and Annette clad only in pajamas, knock on the master suite Bernadetta had snagged and spend an hour marveling at the giant marble bathroom with the huge tub. Dorothea had looked at it and said, “Linhardt can never know, the lazy lout. Though I doubt he’s going to emerge for the next five days.” When no one’s looking, the songstress pouts at her partner-in-matchmaking so easily indisposed, but she also knows it was inevitable given his nature.

Bernadetta doesn’t even scream once about the intrusion. Byleth is so proud of how far she’s come. It does help, however, that Mercedes had brought along her famous homemade sweets. The woman is crafty as hell. 

They spend the first day exploring the manor in their pajamas provided by the staff. Unsurprisingly, they’re less revealing than most of their regular outfits, so no one has any qualms about propriety and milling about in satin shirts and pants. Caspar is out with his father, Linhardt is sleeping, Ferdinand is out sampling tea in the city’s market with Hubert. There’s an art gallery that seems to double as a sitting room in one of the arterial tunnels snaking through the estate, as well as too many closets to enumerate. Annette even gets her once by hiding in the clothes and popping out at her, yelling _Boo!_ After that Byleth vows to one day dress up as a ghost as payback. 

On the second day, Mercedes and Annette insist on utilizing the giant kitchens for their own concoctions. Knowing they’re both infamous for their mishaps in and out of the kitchen, Byleth stands watch, until she’s pulled into helping with icing duty after Annette steals some. Caspar and Linhardt appear, attracted by the smell and Caspar drafts himself as the rolling pin master while Linhardt yawns, seating himself by the kitchen counter to watch. Soon, the whole place is filled with the smell of plum tarts and spinach quiches. Everyone comes out for a late lunch. Over the din, Hubert catches her eye and gives her that small lovely smile again, as if they’re both sharing a private joke. 

On the third day, most people decide to go swimming with Petra while Hubert, Linhardt and Byleth decide to stay behind. Though she loves her team, Byleth’s thankful for the break and solitude. All of those who remained behind are natural loners, Linhardt choosing to slumber, Hubert taking up shop in the library and Byleth reading a book in the gardens. She lies down and soaks in the sunlight with peace and quiet. 

The fourth day is much of the same except it rains inconsistently. Hubert and Byleth cloister up in the library taking separate corners. She brings him coffee and he makes her tea, the warmth settling in her and the pitter-patter of rain outside bringing about a sense of tranquil serenity. When it dies down, late afternoon sunlight dances throughout the room, trembling in spots of light on the floor. She can taste the cinnamon on her tongue and the light pouring through rain-spattered windows suffuses the library with a sullen radiance - they haven’t lit any lamps. She glances over at him, reading instead of working, his fine boned face soft instead of rigid, illuminated in their sanctuary. The whole world feels like it doesn’t exist, war nor famine, the two of them in this bubble. The swaying sunspots in the cavern-like library make her feel like they’re underwater or hiding behind a waterfall. For a brief second she thinks about if they’d gone swimming, him shirtless, floating in the sea, water dropping off his black curls as he leans in to kiss her…

Hubert looks up from his book and their eyes catch. She suppresses a shiver. He’s under her skin and she wants to bleed him out, but she can’t. Whatever this is, she’s too deep in it to back out now, waist high and inescapable. 

On the last and fifth day Dorothea, Petra, Mercedes and Annette are excitedly talking about going on the gondolas. This somehow snowballs into everyone gathering to finally go out into the city together. At the main entrance groups form and break out; they decide to meet back near the naval port in the evening. Linhardt sidles away to find unique research materials, Ferdinand makes a bee line for the tea shops once more, Caspar decides to find the nearest weapons shop and the girls decide to hit the gondolas together. Dorothea gently elbows Hubert until he glares at her, but concedes and asks Byleth if she’d like to walk with him. She agrees.

* * *

Snatches of their conversation drift over the river to be overheard by passersby. 

“What if you were common born?” Byleth asks him at one point. 

Hubert considers this seriously. If he was never noble? “Perhaps an Imperial historian of some sort.” 

“Maybe, or - No, no, I’ve got it. I can see it now. You would...be a grumpy librarian in the streets of Enbarr. You’d hoard coffee in the storeroom and terrify customers for fun.”

“And you? What if you had been born under a different circumstance?”

She sobers a little. “You mean, what if I wasn’t somehow experimented on by Rhea and my father hadn’t been the Blade Breaker? What do you think?”

“Perhaps…if you happened to be situated in Enbarr, you would be one of my few customers. You would sneak dirty books into my collection just to be incendiary, in my imagination,” he says, smirking. 

She snorts and smirks back. “Oh, you know I would. Would we fight less, at the beginning of this scenario?"

“I would chase you out with a broom, so no.” He says plainly. She stares at him slack jawed and then smacks him on the arm. 

“You’re so mean! That’s no way to treat a patron of your small business.” 

There’s a question dangling on her lips every time she turns and looks at him, the sculpted cheekbones, eyes darting down to his mouth. One she won’t breathe a word of. One he won’t ask, despite their back-and-forth of questions. 

_Do you want me?_

* * *

Dusk unfurls across the city; she adores it for the little she’s seen of it, the colorful stalls, the hundred hideaway spots, the constant rushing of water. Lilac shades them pastel as she tugs on Hubert’s arm and points to a nearby clocktower for the best place to view the sunset. He follows her as she bribes the standing guard and pushes past the doors up concrete stairs. They reach the top five storeys up, the limit of his endurance when it comes to heights. He speechlessly thanks the architects it’s not any higher. Fiery colors collide with pink over the water, clouds a painter’s palette mixture. She stands in front of him, expression hidden from him as she overlooks Derdriu, and he feels a million miles away from her all of a sudden. 

He tentatively comes up behind her. She’s got her arms crossed and he can’t tell what she’s thinking. 

“I envy you,” Byleth says abruptly. “Your conviction. You’ve always known what you’ve wanted to do, and never faltered.” 

“Where is this coming from?” He asks. 

“I’ve been thinking about this war,” Byleth says, “And talking with the others.” She turns to look at him, thoughts roiling. “When this is all over, I have no idea what I’m going to do. I’ll be alone again.”

“You think you could get rid of us that easily?” He asks, amused. “Byleth, please.” 

Her answering grin, framed by the setting sun, is effervescent if tinged with some sadness. His mouth is dry at the sight, and he swallows as inaudibly as he can. _You’re not alone. You are never alone. You have me._

“I can’t believe this is our last night,” she says a little mournfully. “Back to the real world tomorrow.” 

“Back to forging Lady Edelgard’s vision of the future, yes,” he says, sliding into Imperial patriotism like a well-worn pair of gloves. She shakes her head once again and points at him, but with a good-natured look. 

“Come on. You enjoyed yourself a little, these last couple days. Admit it. No one’s watching.” Her playful smile is tailor made to destroy him. He sighs. 

“I may have enjoyed aspects of this dawdling, but I maintain it was a frivolous detour.”

“You are incorrigible. You are going to verbally voice your enjoyment one day, I swear it.” She vows. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, but smiles anyway.

* * *

Every step along the way back to Garreg Mach the entire Strike Force hardens, the vacation already a murky memory in the face of all the bloodshed to come. The last five days seem like a dream once they step back into the monastery and the aura of war torn dread seeps into their bones once more. The attack from the Knights of Seiros is like a splash of cold water, though Byleth makes sure to spare Seteth and Flayn. In the flames, however, Ladislava and Randolph perish. They grieve for as long as they can before Her Majesty summons Hubert, Byleth and Lysithea for a briefing once more, the group exchanging cautious looks. The plan is laid out. A smokescreen. A fake attack. _Arianrhod._

One step closer to Rhea. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some Azure Moon and Verdant Wind spoilers.

Fighting Felix is as always, a revelation. Their swords clash like fury, and yet Byleth’s deeply meditative, every movement clanging through her like a loud gong, a mantra. The rhythm of it - a parry, a thrust, a dodge - like music. He fights for every inch of space and she allows it, lets him drive her back, heels digging in for friction. He’s ready to kill her and she’s proud; after all, hadn’t she taught him so much during their sparring sessions? 

But she’s a _god_ , and maybe that is hubris, and perhaps it is arrogance. However, she’d held a sword before he was even born - and her father was the Blade Breaker. They’re close to evenly matched, though, and on his best day, he could’ve beaten her. But that would’ve been in a fair match, and not to the death; and she had been a mercenary. Death is her business, her trade, her currency - and she isn’t ready to give up just yet. Still, when was the last time anyone’s been able to hold their ground with her for more than a few rounds? His honed ferocity is something to behold. It's always been. 

He goes in for a blow and instead, she twists his sword with her blade - his weapon goes under like a dowsing wand at the hint of water, and his eyes narrow in irritation before he escapes the lock and leaps back. 

They stand on rough hewn marble in the midst of the fortress, panting, looking at each other. They’re both silhouettes of blood, every nerve screaming. She can hear her own blood pumping through her veins, a thrum that goes straight between her ears, a bloodlust stoked by adrenaline. Looking at him, she can tell it’s the same behind that cold mask. They’ve always been too alike. 

“I always wondered,” Felix says, like they were carrying on a conversation this whole time, “why you never let me join your House.” 

“Dimitri needed you. And I wasn’t about to tear you away from your childhood friends. Besides, would you really have turned your back on the Kingdom for the Empire?” She calls out. 

“You overestimate my patriotism.” He replies. 

“Big talk for a man who hates knights, yet here you are,” she says, then to soften the blow, “You’ve gotten much better, by the way. I’m impressed.” 

“You’re still as good an opponent as I remember. Your sword is rumored to cut a mountain in half. Too bad that’s not good enough.” He sneers. 

“What happened to no chitchat? Cut me down, Felix.” She taunts. 

“I simply wanted to ask if you regret any of this before I do so.” His tone's the rustling of grass before a lion sprints out of shadow and she rises to meet his challenge with taloned claws. 

“I don’t,” she says. “Does your Kingdom regret harboring a monster?” 

He growls and she tenses, thinking him ready to re-engage, but he doesn’t move. “You’re in league with the people _who killed your father and caused the Tragedy of Duscur_. Don’t talk to me about monsters.”

“I plan to kill them as soon as we’re done,” she says, with more indifference than she feels. He shakes his head, scoffing with the arrogance that could only make him a Fraldarius. “Your king only cares about rearranging furniture and doing it his way, with politeness and diplomacy. We’re done waiting. I won’t ask you to stand down - I won’t dishonor you that way.” 

“Good,” he says, “then you know where I stand.” 

A beat. Then they both explode from their position and crash into each other, the wrath of her Emperor and the sword of his King. She bears down on his blade with all the force of her arms, the upper hand already hers; but he throws her off with concerted effort, furious blow after blow, not giving her any space. 

She could’ve fought him forever. But they don’t have the luxury of infinite time, ironically. She spins faster than his sight can detect, faster than light, pivoting on her heel like a dancer even with little ground. He’s always been so quick but she’s faster ever since she became an assassin herself, and he moves just a half second behind where he needs to be - when their blades meet it resonates through her entire body. 

“I don’t need to cleave a mountain in two to-” His arms are shaking with the sheer effort of holding her back. 

“beat-” Jade eyes press down on amber, a breath caught between them, and she knows her victory. 

“- _you!_ ” 

The strike of her silver sword has all her strength in it and his blade clatters to the side, he falls to the ground, and she has her blade to his throat. 

“I’m fucking unkillable,” she says. “I almost wish I wasn’t.” 

The sharpest point of her sword at his neck could bleed him dry, if she took only one step forward. 

“What are you waiting for?” He sneers. She knows how he dies - his last choked out words. Her hand doesn’t tremble but her sword doesn’t move. For all her bravado, she’s looking down at him and his stupid ponytail, remembering too many afternoons of practicing maneuvers together. He barks out hoarsely, “Finish it, you coward! _Finish it!_ ” 

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

He stares at her with absolute hatred. “So you crush me and then make me watch as you kill my king and my father? You bastard. This is _war_. How fucking dare you go soft on me now-”

“Rodrigue will live, I swear,” she says numbly. “I’m sorry. I’m selfish. I can’t - ” She flips her blade and knocks him out with her hilt, then heals him. She knows someone will come for him, and soon enough, his battalion scuttles over and picks him up after sending her a gaze that can only be described as fearful and edged with loathing. _Ashen Demon._ On the other side of the fortress she can hear the fighting; Ingrid’s gone down after Bernadetta’s shot her without mercy. She shuts her eyes tight. With her last efforts she instructs them to spare Rodrigue but seize his territory. Edelgard brings down her axe on Cornelia and it’s all over in the span of a blink. 

Arianrhod falls, but it’s with a sour taste in her mouth that they claim victory.

* * *

Shamir and Byleth linger in the shadows of Arianrhod, searching Cornelia’s chambers. They’re due to set off in an hour. Byleth and Shamir are pretending to spar in some forgotten corner of the fortress, but what they’re really searching for is information. Shamir had previously looked at Byleth and discerned how shaken she was, vibrating off the walls, but had said nothing. 

The swordsmaster scours the place with a swiftness usually reserved for dragons. Shamir decides to wait her out. Byleth would tell her eventually. 

“Your boyfriend has been researching Ailell,” Shamir mentions. Byleth ignores the boyfriend comment. 

“Interesting. Something about all of this feels...off,” Byleth says. “Cornelia was an advisor to the royal family during the Tragedy of Duscur, correct?” 

Shamir nods. “She was close to Dimitri’s stepmother and Edelgard’s biological mother, too. I’ve been thinking - ”

The shuffle of feet near the door silences them immediately. They dodge into hiding places until the sound fades away, then stare at each other. 

“I should go, before I get any more suspicious,” Byleth hisses. Shamir nods. “See you back at Garreg Mach.”

* * *

Lord Arundel pays them a visit. Arianrhod is decimated. To Byleth’s disappointment, Edelgard suggests they lie about the real truth of it all, pillars of light a Church’s weapon - after hearing the Strike Force’s reactions, she can’t take it anymore. Hubert notices Byleth and Shamir exchange grim looks, then they vanish somewhere together. The two of them have been doing a lot of that lately; disappearing into dark corners, the sheet of neat blue hair next to messily shorn green. Hubert won’t begrudge Byleth her friends, but he knows a secret when he sees one, the thick of it close to tangible in the spaces between their hands. He trusts her; but there’s a bitterness in him as they go, because it looks like she still doesn’t trust him.

* * *

_Ingrid’s body sprawled against the pavement, her Pegasi slaughtered._

_Seteth and Flayn retreating into the ocean, fading into the liquid like sea foam._

_Claude standing in the ocean with a gleaming arrow in his throat, laughing._

_Felix walking into the Sword of the Creator, hands on the hilt and pushing it deeper into his chest._

_Dimitri’s sweet, bashful smile turned into a crown of teeth._

Byleth wakes some time before dawn, night pressing in on her in a black, inky vice. She doesn’t go back to sleep. She misses Derdriu, the careless whimsy and reckless joy in defiance of everything that had happened, the ache of it like a knife in the ribs, slashing upwards into her heart.

* * *

Byleth finds Jeritza in the training grounds at dawn, and tosses him a sword. A real steel blade, instead of a blunted wooden piece of garbage meant to scare children and cut nothing. They don’t even speak at first, just crouch and circle like they’ve been fighting their whole lives. 

“Is this to the death?” He asks in that slow, drawn out drawl. “You realize...I am unable to kill you until this war ends.” 

“No. It’s not.” She replies. “You’re the only person here who’ll fight me like an equal and can hold a sword worth a damn. So let’s go.” 

There’s only the sound of metal hitting metal then, feet stepping back and forth or trying to find purchase in the granite floor. Jeritza does not know Byleth well but he knows their sword style, studied it, memorized it; she’s vicious now where she would normally be measured. It’s setting him alight, and he matches her every single moment because he’s never seen her so unhinged. The beast within him brays and growls, so close to the end goal, but he reins the Death Knight in with considerable effort. 

“You fight as if you would maim,” he says calmly. “Have I angered you somehow? Or perhaps,” he says with a close slice, “You realize that I am the only one who can understand you. For we speak the language of a shared weapon, and the dance.”

“Save your violent overtures, deathdealer,” she snarls. “Maybe I just wanted to swing at someone I don’t give a fuck about and not feel guilty. Maybe I am tired of this war, of-” she swings down, missing his arm by a fraction, “fighting friends and killing them or making them hate me. Maybe I’m tired of wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I want you to take my head off so I can stop thinking! Maybe I just want someone to put me out of my _fucking- misery!_ ” 

They slow, heaving out breaths. Sweat drips down their necks. He blinks at the rate of molasses going down a straw. “I am not your absolution or your vindication.” He places his sword on the ground. “And I will not be your self destruction.” 

She stares at him and closes her eyes so tight her face might get stuck that way, but lowers her own weapon. Her hand comes up to rub at her forehead and she shakes her head. He’s never seen her so exhausted. “Goddess, I’m tired,” she murmurs, though her voice carries. 

“You fear that you are a monster,” he drones monotonously. “You worry about living up to your name, inhuman, cold blooded murderer, one who follows and does not doubt the atrocities they have committed. You, Byleth Eisner, are not me. I feel no regret. I do not feel contrition. What resides within me is a hunger that must be fed, yet you wonder you are still whole. You are no monster if you grapple with this...guilt. I care not for your struggles, but the young emperor speaks highly of you. You, who I have deemed to be strong enough to kill me...it would be a pity if you faltered now, when you’ve defeated death itself.”

There’s a stunned silence. Byleth says, astonished, “Jeritza, that was the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” 

He replies to this affront with a mildly offended air, “I am not...nice. It is only that fighting you in this state is pathetic,” he states. “You are clearly not yourself. I want us to fight to last blood at your absolute zenith.”

“You are out of your damn mind. But...thank you. That surprisingly helped.” 

He considers this for a minute. “I will accept ice cream as compensation.”

* * *

“Catherine would tell you to make up your damn mind or get off the pot, _xiao mei_. What do you fear?” 

Byleth’s watching Shamir nurse a horrible drink at the Wilting Rose Inn while Byleth sucks a lime between her teeth as if she even drinks tequila. 

“I’m worried about my team,” Byleth replies at last. “What they’d do without me. I’m worried about the path Edelgard’s on.” 

“Yes, they act like you hung the moon and stars. But they’d be fine without you, especially if you tell them the truth. They can make up their own minds, cards fall where they may. Our princess made her own bed. She’s a lady now, an Emperor. What are you really afraid of?” 

Byleth says little, worrying the peel of the long-consumed lime with her nails. 

“It’s Hubert, isn’t it? Concerned about disappointing him?”

The swordswoman scoffs and lowers her voice to a whisper, barely heard above the bar’s din. “We might be about to speak sedition to the leader of the Adrestian Empire, a thousand year old dynasty that was given and blessed by the offspring of _God_ ,” she hisses. “I am hardly concerned about one man.” 

“Good.” Shamir crosses her arms. “I'll remind you that I don't believe in Fodlan's God, even if she did dye your hair. We need you sharp. Especially if you’re going to convince Her Majesty. Or are you just going to let everyone decide your own path for you, again?”

Byleth shoots her a glare - Shamir’s words aim true. They always do. 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Byleth says. 

“I’ll start drawing up our contingency plan,” Shamir says, after taking a sip of her awful beer and making a disgusted face. 

“When I suggested we run away together, I didn’t think it was going to be under this circumstance,” Byleth jokes. Shamir swings a thoroughly not entertained expression her way. Byleth shrugs, then asks gingerly, “What’re you thinking? Of my chances?” 

“Daniel asked me that right before we went to war with the Empire,” Shamir says. “He ended up dead. So I wouldn’t place my bets yet. Just be ready for anything and everything.” 

“Have I ever told you I adore your eternal sense of optimism?” 

Shamir snorts unflatteringly. She takes another swig of the drink. “What I think of your odds, strategist? Not horrible, all things considered. She looks up to you. Anyone with eyes can see that. We’ll be prepared for the worst, but I think you could get her to listen.”

* * *

The next time Hubert sees Byleth, she’s swept into the cardinals’ room after Her Majesty. He remains, standing outside of the cardinals’ room, as their voices go from hushed to arguing as if the whole castle could collapse around them and they wouldn’t care. He had heard only snatches of their conversation before. 

“-much more death do you intend to make me responsible for-”

“-stronger than that, my teacher-”

“-speak to me about pain-”

“-finish this-”

Then a silence so long he wonders if they’ve somehow warped outside. 

“I want you to at least consider it. Seriously. Or I walk. Right now.” Byleth’s voice rumbles like thunder. 

Her Majesty’s shaken, yet tries to cover it up. “Oh? And where would you go?” 

“I’ve got options. None of which I can tell you.” 

“You can’t be thinking of becoming a sellsword again. Not after all that we’ve done, all that we’ve accomplished. You would give up - divinity - to peddle across the nation - ”

“For the _people!_ ” Byleth roars, and Hubert winces as he hears the sound of a fist slamming into a table, the wood groaning under the force. “For the people you claim to wage this war for! For everyone whose blood has been spilt, for the dozen men and women out there who would follow you into hell if you asked! Yes, I would give up everything for them! I would toss aside this glorified weapon of war and become a farmer if that’s what it took to open your eyes! You decry Rhea for her lies, and yet that’s what we choose to do to our friends? To cover for the people, who I remind you, stole your mother, killed my father and Dimitri’s entire family, bringing about an entire genocide of indigenous people? Arundel is not your uncle, he is a Slitherer replaced, so he may have killed your uncle as well! I despise Rhea as much as you do. But this makes us no better than her, Edelgard, you must see that. You’re being played, and what’s worse, by the same people who tortured you and killed most of your family. Who gives a damn about the Kingdom, about Fhirdiad, when we have these bastards as allies? Is this how you want to win? Your shortened lifespan is blinding you from the big picture. Any of us could die tomorrow, _Your Majesty!_ I didn’t teach you to be a fool, so _stop acting like one_.” 

“You dare talk to your Emperor-”

“I am not Hubert,” she says, low and dangerous. Hubert’s hands twitch. “I won’t enable you. In this future we’re making - the means don’t justify the ends. What we do in the name of justice means nothing if it’s based on lies and blood, just like everything that has come before us. Where is the bravest girl I’ve ever known, who declared war at seventeen to topple the wretched status quo? Where is the girl I’ve always admired, sharp and astute, yet now a pawn of murderers? Where is that girl, my Emperor, to whom I pledged my fealty? You once said to me this - there is a choice to be made. I hope you make the right one.” 

The sound of heels clicking makes Hubert withdraw immediately into the darkened stairwell, heart still racing from the sheer audacity of Byleth’s statements. Byleth emerges and strides away, simmering with all the heat of a banked fire. Her Majesty remains in the room, and he can only imagine the expression on her face. Shamir emerges from the shadows, her expression uncrackable. She looks directly at him, though he’s well hidden, a piercing gaze that holds for only a moment before she follows Byleth. 

* * *

The next day, Byleth’s packing furiously when Hubert appears in her doorway. She looks at him briefly, then resumes. 

“If you’re here to kill me, let me remind you that it doesn’t really take. But you’re welcome to try.” She says curtly. 

“I’m not.” He says, stark. “How did you-”

“I asked Shamir to do recon while we were in Derdriu,” Byleth said. “Ferdinand snuck into the Kingdom for Mercedes, and uncovered some interesting documents, about Dimitri and Edelgard’s mother. Arianrhod had its own clues. Arundel was easy enough to figure; he was the same story as Monica and Cornelia. Completely changed from how they were before.” 

He swallows, mind reeling. “You always surprise me.”

“No, I just didn’t have tunnel vision.” She says, straightening. “I care for you both, but you’ve never seen the scope of this playing field.” 

“That is?” 

“That things are more complex and gray than they seem,” she says wryly. “I know that well.” 

There’s a silence as they both regard each other. 

“With me gone,” she sighs, “will you take care of everyone?”

“Her Majesty won’t send you away.” 

“Won’t she?” 

“She loves you too much.” 

“More than her pride? Her goals? I’m not sure, Hubert. You once said true intelligence was to make plans for the worst scenario. Here it is. Take care of everyone, especially Lysithea and everyone who gave up their homelands to join us.” 

“Where will you go?” 

“I can’t tell you that.” 

His next question is layered with bitterness. “To _Almyra?_ ” 

She shrugs, too nonchalantly for his taste. “What does it matter, now?” 

“I’m finding,” he says, strained, “that it matters a great deal.” 

“Hubert-”

At that moment, Byleth’s door swing open and their Emperor walks in, clad in crimson, looking as imperious as ever. Hubert snaps to attention and bows, and Byleth stares with an expectant expression. Her Majesty’s benighted eyes fall upon Byleth’s beaten up, well used rucksack. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“I’m...preparing,” Byleth replies gingerly, looking tense. 

“For a trip? That won’t do,” Edelgard says. “You’ll have to reschedule.” 

“Your Majesty-”

“Especially since,” Her Majesty cuts her off, “We’ll be marching on the Slitherers’ home base, Shambhala in a month.” 

Hubert and Byleth both openly gawk at her. She surveys them both and curls her fingers in front of her mouth in what they both know is a thought reflex of hers. 

“I’m not so pigheaded that I cannot admit when I am beaten,” she says. “You are correct, my teacher. It seems you really are my anchor in this war. I’ve spent too long sullying myself with these demons, and they must be put to rest before we unite Fodlan and stop Rhea. Are you two with me?” 

Hubert bows. “Always, Your Majesty.” 

Byleth grins and places her fist over her heart. “My blade is yours, El.” 

Edelgard blushes faintly, but only acknowledges them both with a nod. “Then I expect to see you both after dinner in the cardinals’ room. There are preparations to make if we are to end these creatures, once and for all.” She catches Byleth’s eye. “And I believe,” she says slowly, “I have much to reveal to the Strike Force.” 

Edelgard is on the brink of the threshold when Byleth’s voice stops her. 

“El,” she says. “I’m proud of you.” 

“You shouldn’t be,” Edelgard says. “I’m merely doing what I said I would back then. Reaching out my hand, when you move forward. And... Byleth...thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot! fighting! drama! hubert and byleth interact more in the next chapter, but i felt like this chapter needed to be in here since yeah, this has become a bit of a crimson flower fix-it. honestly one of my favorites, even if it doesn't progress the romance any. i hope all of you are washing your hands, staying inside and keeping safe.


	8. Chapter 8

The Strike Force handles the news in different ways. Edelgard doesn't pressure them for a reaction, though all of them wholeheartedly agree that the Slitherers need to go down before uniting the land.  
  
All that's left after they shuffle out is the loaded silence as Byleth asks Hubert to hang back in the cardinals' room for a moment so they can plan together. He shows her the notes and information he has on Shambhala, his manner diffidently glacial throughout. She doesn't know where they stand at all. It's like she's pulsed all the way back to the beginning. Hubert won't look at her, gaze turned to the side or looking right past her. They're close, adjacent to each other in the large, empty room, which feels much bigger than it normally does.  
  
“On a scale of one to ten,” she asks slowly, “How furious are you with me?”  
  
“Don't be flippant,” he snaps, still refusing to look at her. “It's beneath you.”  
  
“So...nine?” She tries, though the joke falls predictably flat. “Hubert, I'm sorry. I want to understand why you're angry with me.”  
  
He looks at her straight on, and she regrets not having the shield of his indifference then. “Perhaps it is because my trust in you is not returned, and my loyalty to you a farce,” he snipes. “You had your suspicions about those who slither in the dark, and not once did you confide in me even when I swore I would aid you. Are my words like air to you - of no consequence? Do you consider me a liar?”  
  
She understands where he's coming from, his hurt palpable. Byleth scrambles to explain. “Hubert, I- I didn’t want to put you in that position, where you had to choose between your loyalty to Edelgard and your promise to me. It's not that I don't trust you – I just didn't think I'd have to ask you right after you'd made that pledge – I didn’t want to put you in any danger–”  
  
“That is not _your_ _decision_ _to make_ _!_ ” His voice is down to a hiss. She's never seen him so aggrieved. They're arguing again - it's downright nostalgic. “Is that all you think of me? As her appendage?”  
  
“No, but you're her retainer,” she says, and she knows immediately that was the wrong thing to say by the way his eye narrows, but she keeps going anyway. “You, for one, didn't tell me about your research on Ailell, or share this information with me sooner. As you've said since we’ve met, your house has served the Emperor for generations, you’re her servant first and foremost, Hubert - how could I ask you to choose me?”  
  
“I can make my own decisions.”  
  
Recklessly, impulsively, she dares to glibly remark, “Is that so? Prove it.”  
  
At this, Hubert rounds on her, palm flat on the table beside her, visible eye wild, and she suddenly remembers that he is still the man who threatened her. She can’t sense any malice in his gaze but something within it scares her nonetheless, dangerous and thrilling. She doesn’t move an inch with him in her space and the air between them could be a shower of sparks for all the electricity felt. His gaze drops down for a second and she feels herself warm. He’s close, close enough to -

He leans in to murmur in her ear. “Would you believe me even if I did?”

Hubert walks away before she can answer.

* * *

When once she found him impossible to shake off, Hubert has pulled off a vanishing act that makes her prior avoidance of him look like child’s play. Usually, where Edelgard is, he follows, but even tailing her Emperor doesn’t seem to work. They’re both her trusted generals, so they see each other during meetings, but the minute she tries to catch him afterwards he’s disappeared into thin air and she’s mysteriously kept swamped with other duties. He needs time and he’s disappointed. She knows this but still misses him. They’d been spending more time together – meals, tea, discussing books – but now that’s come to a standstill. There’s an emptiness in her life without his acerbic humor. Byleth never realized she’d come to be locked in his gravitational pull, or vice versa.

_How can I prove that I trust him?_

* * *

A week passes and Hubert finds a thick piece of ivory card stock shoved under his door. The calligraphy is passable, at best – he knows instantly who it’s from. He wants to laugh, even – no one noble born could have written this, save Caspar who has the worst handwriting out of all of them. But he can see how painstakingly she’s tried to emulate the cursive used so frequently among them. He’s touched, despite himself. The message on its own is vague, however.

_Dear Hubert,_

_Please meet me in the cathedral at midnight tonight._

_Sincerely,_

_Byleth_

* * *

The monastery at witching hour is his favorite time, quiet, eerie, hauntingly dark and bereft of people. He crosses the bridge over to the cathedral, huge iron gates already lifted open. The wind whistles past his ear as he closes the doors shut, the usually bustling monument empty. He finds her in the front pews bathed in moonlight, smoking with her father’s pipe. Gray plumes of smoke drift from her mouth, curling in the air as she looks deeply contemplative. Byleth’s wearing a dress he hasn’t seen before – royal blue with cut long sleeves like her cloak, the skirt gray, a patterned panel of cranes and water making up most of the top half and the mandarin collar. Something in his brain pings faintly. She notices his approach and sets her pipe aside, then gets up to face him.

“Hello, Hubert.”

“Byleth.” He replies. His mind settles on why, exactly, the dress looks familiar. He may have not taken much interest in the traditional dress of those the Empire conquered, but he knows its signature when he sees it. “Why are you wearing a Dagdan cheongsam?”

She smiles. “Take a guess.”

His eye widens. _No._ “You’re Dagdan.”

“Correct.” She says, sounding satisfied, having orchestrated her _Zwischenzug_ perfectly. “You're right. I haven’t trusted you. But now, I think it’s time to stop hiding. I want to tell you everything. If you would hear it.”

It all makes sense, now. Her unfamiliarity with Fodlan’s customs and traditions; her lack of knowledge about the church, nobility and geography. Her closeness with Shamir. Her vagueness whenever asked about her past. _She’_ _s_ _Dagdan._ She even spoke with a slight Dagdan accent, if one tried very hard to hear it. He could smack himself.

“Who else knows this?”

“Shamir. Petra. Claude. And now, you.”

“Does the Emperor know?”

“No.”

“You’ve been keeping many secrets, it seems.”

“Almost as many as you and Her Majesty,” she replies.

“Enlighten me. We are clearly here for a purpose.” He all but demands, struggling with this newfound revelation.

“Of course. Let me tell you about my childhood, and the place I grew up – beyond what the Empire has fed you. It’s so beautiful, and...”

She’s silent for so long he prompts her. “And?”

“Broken,” she settles on. “You know…my father had some distant Dagdan relatives. He couldn’t haul a baby across Fodlan while he was a mercenary, so he left me with them. I grew up in one of the capital cities, scattered across the continent. A city of spices, coffee and utterly colorful clothing...I miss it. We didn’t believe in Fodlan’s God, either. Then the war happened – our city had wanted no part of it from the beginning and yet the Empire still came and occupied our land. Even renamed it. My father came and got me before they locked down its borders. I think I was sixteen. We stole away to some remote part of Dagda, mercifully untouched by the war. My father told me it was a vacation, some much needed bonding time. I suppose he was good at lying to me, keeping secrets, even then. Perhaps that’s why I’m so good at it too. When I came back, everything was different. This was after Count von Bergliez killed Petra’s father. My home is strong - we rebuilt, we overcame, but we had great respect for the Brigidine king, even with our own intracommunal tensions with Brigid. That was a blow. To stand against you all - seemed impossible, after that.”

The atmosphere is so taut you could garrote something with it. The cathedral, grandiose and huge, seems too small for the knowledge passed on tonight.

“Why did you choose us?” Hubert chokes out. “You must’ve hated us. The Adrestian Empire. With good reason.”

“It was for Petra. I did my research when I met her, and I put two and two together. I knew she was a hostage. I wanted to help her, any way I knew how. But you know her. She didn’t need any assistance from me. That girl...is one of the strongest people I know.”

She turns to face the moon beaming down from the hole in the ceiling. “You’re wondering why I stayed. Why I chose Her Majesty. Why I’m telling you all of this now.”

He waits.

“She converted me,” Byleth says. Not a statement of reverence, but a fact. “Our girl - our Emperor - is a revolutionary. More than that, she’s suffered. She told me everything. From the rats to the experiments. Anyone else would’ve lain down, but she got back up with a fire to rival armies. How could I not follow her? I’d march into the gates of hell for her. I may never forgive the Empire of old, but she’s not Adrestia. She’s not Ionius. She’s going to tear it all down. She’s a godkiller about to rewrite history, and she’s a girl who loves sweets, who draws in her spare time, and she’s my friend.”

He smiles, bittersweet. “That is my Lady. Inspiring even those who should despise us.” He takes a seat on one of the pews, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. He wasn’t expecting this. He thought perhaps another apology, but not this. She seats herself next to him, all prior confidence faded.

“So now you know everything,” she says, her expression uncertain. “I’m sorry to have kept so much from you. I want to be honest with you from now on. Do you – do you think differently of me, now that you know?” _I trust you enough not to expose me. I trust you enough not to tell the Emperor. I know you are your own man, but- have I made a mistake?_ He could hear the underlying message under her words, and he understands why she’d truly chosen now to tell him.

“No,” he murmurs. “I find myself trusting you, even with my life. That has not changed. I admire you even more so than I did before. You must trust me a great deal, to tell me all of this. I – I must admit that the cause of my anger was not solely because of trust.”

“Oh?”

“You were going to leave us again,” he reveals, raw. “You were packing as if it meant little to you to take off once more. I could not abide such a thing. Especially if it drove you into the arms of _Claude von Riegan_.”

“You dislike him that much? He’s a friend, Hubert, but I’m not going to jump ship just because of that.”

For an exceedingly intelligent woman, Byleth could be incredibly dense. “I dislike that he got to know you at all. But I suppose I can be...covetous. Her Majesty tells me constantly.”

“I’m still here. I’m not going to leave you again. Not if I can help it.” She takes his hand. His whole world becomes the heat of her flooding through his glove. He could pull her into his arms and drown in the heady feel of her mouth. He could say he truly knew her now, and that made him want her even more. “Can you trust me on that?”

He could tell her so many things. He could screw up the courage he has, follow in her league and speak the truth. _I could not bear it if you left me again. Those five years you were gone were as if the shadows swallowed up so much light._ _I wondered about you, time and time again._ _I want to learn everything_ _there is to know_ _about you,_ _the food you ate, the music you grew up dancing to, the things you hold dear_ _. I’m sorry our fathers ever had a part in destroying it. I would kill my own again if I could, for you. You awakened a heart I was not aware I had. Stay with me, Byleth. Please._

Instead he can only croak out, “I can.”

* * *

Byleth spots Hubert in the library reading books about Dagda in the coming days. He asks her polite questions, never stepping too far but letting her know he’s interested. She, who has never revealed much about her home or herself, tells him everything. One conversation they have is over pickled seafood and vegetables, seasoned with vinegar, a Dagdan dish he enjoys – he asks her if she would tell him more about how she grew up.

“Nothing would make me happier,” she says, and means it. “I used to live right near the sea – Orkiria’s a port city, our specialty’s crabs. Chili crab, butter crab, pepper crab, you name it. Oh, and the night markets, Hubert...”

A picture begins to take shape. She was raised by two wise aunts, Queenie and Benrime, who taught her how to read and write – though Byleth knows she was a handful. She was unruly, a wild child who loved her books as much as she loved picking fights. Jeralt would come by occasionally, teach her swordfighting and tell her stories. She grew up free, using ships at the harbor as her playground and eating food spicy enough to make grown men cry. They used to dance and sing in the streets, and it’s there that she abruptly stops talking. He can hear the rest of the sentence. Everything changed when the Empire counter-invaded.

“But you rebuilt,” he says. “I have no doubt that the place that raised you would be strong enough to.”

She smiles, watery. “Yes, but I haven’t seen my home in so long, Hubert. Half of it was in ruins the last time I saw it, when we came back to check on Auntie Samin. I was seventeen then, and we never stopped running afterwards. A couple years later I was in Fodlan, dazed and confused. Then I met all of you. The rest, they say, is history.”

“Yet the nature of humanity is that we change and adapt. Your countrymen do not seem like the type to give up and roll over. Even if so, Orkiria is still significant to you. For that alone, it is valuable. When this war is over, I would like to travel there someday and see it for myself – if you’d accompany me on such a journey.”

She grins at him. “I’d like that,” she says softly, “I might be brave enough to see it all again with you. But wouldn’t you hate leaving the Empire and taking a vacation? Even for a little while? I don’t want to impose - ”

“I would not mind,” he says. His eye darts up to find her gaze. “Byleth, I would...I would do much for you.” He opens his mouth to keep stumbling through this half-confession, but Her Majesty strides through the doors to find them to discuss their march in the next few days. Internally, he sighs. Shambhala.

* * *

The mechanism that lowers them into the belly of the beast is ominously smooth and silent. They’re forced to split up into strike teams of three, Edelgard, Lysithea and her leading the charge. Byleth watches worriedly as Hubert is shunted off with Mercedes and Ashe – neither of them are particularly physical fighters, and she has a feeling this city without light is full of formidable mages. But she swallows her fear in the shadows, and tries to have faith. She owes him that much.

The path is bloody, but they reach the inner sanctum and Byleth directs Her Majesty to kill Thales. Edelgard plunges her axe into his chest, uttering, “This is for my siblings, this is for those who died because of the atrocities you committed – and this is for _my mother._ ” With his dying breaths, he seems to move towards activating a special weapon, but Lysithea twirls in her Gremory’s finery and burns his entire body into ashes, then spits in front of the pile.

“Rot in hell, creature,” Lysithea says, and no more.

The three women stand over the filth and survey it with a macabre satisfaction. They take a moment together, hands linked, marked with blood. Then they leave the dark chamber, never to set eyes on it again.

They rejoin the rest of the Strike Force and Byleth’s eyes slide towards Hubert immediately. Hubert, in typical fashion, is covered in blood – half his face looks like a mask of death. She shakes her head until she notices him wince. Edelgard shoots Mercedes a look, who mentions grimly, “Hubert was struck by a Titanus.”

They don’t waste any time.

* * *

It’s midnight when they arrive at the infirmary. Given Byleth’s own learned healing abilities, after Mercedes patches him up Byleth directs herself to watch over him while everyone else goes to bed.

“I’m fine, it’s just a scratch,” he insists, but the swordswoman shakes her head. “You should rest, I’m perfectly capable of-”

“You’re a stubborn ass,” Byleth tells him. “When have I ever let you tell me what to do? At least let me clean some of the blood off your face, now that you’re out of the danger zone.” She grabs a washed rag from Manuela’s kit and directs him to sit on the edge of the bed. Hubert sighs but complies. Byleth runs it under the sink and then with no preamble gets up in his space.

His breath hitches at her nearness. She dislodges the blood with a focused expression, rag turning pink. He can see every eyelash – the gleam of the lights in her pupils, the fullness of her ruddy lips, the way her jaw sets whenever she’s determined to help somebody. When she’s finished, her expression is soft, soft enough that he could see himself doing something entirely stupid. He has to restrain himself from touching her by clenching his hands into fists by his side.

She doesn’t move away, and instead she presses a hand to his cheek and searches his face. Then, as if she finds something, she murmurs, “You don’t get to be angry about me almost leaving and then nearly die by internal injuries, Vestra. I won’t allow it.”

“I doubt even one such as you can make up for the shortcomings of mortality, Byleth.” He breathes. Then, as she draws closer, he inhales sharply. “What are you doing?”

“I- can I-” she shakes her head and moves away, but his hand shoots out to grasp her wrist and spin her around. He barely stops himself from pulling her into his lap.

“Tell me.” He commands.

“I wanted to look at your eyes,” she whispers. “The color.”

His voice, when he finds it, comes out as a rasp. “Then look,” he tells her. He releases his grip on her but she doesn’t move away. Slowly, but surely, she takes his head between her hands and looks deeply, her fill: his eyes are flecked aureate, but her answer is clear.

“Ah, I see,” she says softly. “Your eyes are green.”

A surprised gasp parts his lips, whistles through and he can’t help it anymore, he surges upward and stops himself right before they touch, and feels himself dangling off the precipice or something terrifying and great. The chain breaks.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, and presses his lips to hers, trembling like an untried teenager with silent want, he’s been needing to do this for so long. The kiss is clumsy and brief, and he can feel her shock as she freezes, and he pulls away with a chest full of lead.

He loves her. All that time spent denying it blew away like dust in the wind as soon as he’d kissed her, and he knew it like a cry from his core: he loves her. He loves her laughter, her bullheadedness, her discipline, her principles, her smiling at him as the sun set over Derdriu and her open heart, and he’d blown it all on a hasty kiss.

* * *

She’s stunned. Her pulse is thundering so hard she feels like she’s about to be swallowed by the bucking, gasping maw of it. Her cheeks are aflame. She touches one hand to her lips and then she looks at him, his face a storm cloud of something altogether too complex to parse. He gets up and she sees his throat work once, then sweeps out of the room like a bat out of hell.

 _No._ She tries to get up, rooted by shock. _Wait._ She parts her mouth. _Stop. Come back._

She finally regains her composure and bursts through the doors, looking around frantically. She runs down the stairs and bursts out into the courtyard in front of the Officers’ Academy, where Hubert is standing, a lone black figure against the moon. He doesn’t turn to look at her, just minutely bends his head. All she can see is his cheek and a sliver of his eye. She steps towards him until she’s close enough to reach out and touch him, but she’s afraid of him skittering off once more.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I was - I apologize,” he says quietly, but loud enough for her to hear, voice flat until he’s stumbling on his words.

“Hubert, I just want to know -”

He laughs, humorlessly, then finally turns to face her, gaze searing. “Do you not know? Is it not painfully obvious by now? I’ll spare you the confession, and you can spare me the rejection.”

Her head is so full of noise nothing can keep up. She can’t look at him straight on. “Confession?”

He makes a frustrated sound. “I see you’re intent on playing this out.”

Helplessly, she says, “I just want to - understand. I don’t - ”

“What would you have me say? Would you like to hear the whole of it? That I am in agony,” he bites out, teeth gritted. “That it feels at times as if I could live or die on a look from you alone, and yet you still feign ignorance?”

At this she’s weak, knees locking and her entire body shaking. Oh. The great wave of emotions in her thrashing, she dares to look at him, his fists clenched, body a comma of contained want. She whispers, “Don’t you know it’s the same for me?”

At this, it’s Hubert’s turn to be flabbergasted. “Excuse me?”

Hubert has never seen Byleth look as vulnerable as she does now, her shoulders hunching a little as she looks up at the stars, breathes out, lowers her gaze once again and then claps her hands on her face. She mutters through fingers as audibly as she can muster, “Don’t you know I want you?”

He turns his head sharply, color high in his cheeks, as he tries and fails to hide a wobbly smile. She lowers her hands as she watches him. He’s never been more beautiful to her than this, bashful and happy. Hubert’s inner world is a roil of emotions struggling with each other as he attempts to school his features and his voice comes out rougher than usual.

“We- I- We shouldn’t -” He mumbles. _I don’t deserve you._ “You cannot want me,” _as I am_ , he states as he draws into himself.

Her own embarrassment vanishes. “I can, and I do,” she says and she tries to come closer to him. His skin prickles with lightning erupting under his skin as she does and he starts to back away, scared of how much he wants to reach back.

“We’re in a war, this is – inappropriate,” he says. Hurt flickers over Byleth’s visage for a moment before she stops moving towards him and he yearns to wipe it away from her face.

“Tell me you feel nothing for me. Tell me I’m the only one who has felt this between us, after all this time. Look me in the eyes and lie to me. Say that was an impulsive outburst and we will never speak of this again,” she demands. Byleth takes two deliberate steps back to give him space. She scrunches her eyes shut. “I just- I won’t- if you don’t want to, if you don’t-”

_Be brave. For once in your life, you fool, be brave._

He sweeps her into his arms, shivering. He murmurs into her ear, voice as steady as he can hold it, “I had a dream, of us, as a couplet of birds, flying along the sovereign of Black Eagles. I want you as the stars and moon want only night. May the goddess strike me down, but I am hopelessly devoted to you. The fact that you feel at all the same is – nothing short of miraculous. I cannot...you overwhelm me.”

She whispers back after a moment, heart swelling, “May I kiss you?”

He’s stunned speechless for a second, then replies, “Please.”

Her splayed, warm fingers on his cheek is all he registers in the world until her soft lips press to his. His hands circle around her waist and he presses her into him, wanting to memorize her form, every sensation but the moving of her mouth lost to him entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Zwischenzug_ is a chess tactic in which a player, instead of playing the expected move (commonly a recapture), first interposes another move posing an immediate threat that the opponent must answer, and only then plays the expected move. 
> 
> Dagda - or at least the parts that Shamir and Byleth here are both from - is based on East and Southeast Asia, though it may span beyond that. This twist has been planned from the beginning, and I always wanted Hubert to grapple with the legacy of the Empire's imperialism and face his own racism a little. (His support with Petra is....yeesh. Though Intsys isn't great at writing stuff about race in general.) 
> 
> Queenie and Benrime Samin are shoutouts to my favorite video game, _The Longest Journey_!
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a kudos or a comment! And as always, many thanks to loyal readers who have done so in the past. Not to put a too fine a point on it, but at last, yeah? I've had parts of those last scenes written for ages, just needed to finagle how to finish it. Stay tuned - we're not done yet by any means.


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